


playing on your broken speakers

by perissologist



Series: Pop Psychology [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin Eternal (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Disability, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, vague alien invasions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They hadn’t put a name to—whatever this was between them, yet, but Jason had the sneaking suspicion that it had already evolved beyond his control, that any speed bumps he could’ve thought to put on whatever it was they were became useless the moment he realized he couldn’t look at Dick without feeling like he was gazing into the heart of a forest fire that he would gladly allow to consume him whole.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dick gets hurt, badly. Jason wishes he could turn back time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. there were days and nights i couldn't see the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have changed my username!!! i changed it to match my tumblr url/the name that all of my internet dc buddies know me by. i'm not sure how exactly this affects my ao3 content, but i apologize sincerely for any resubscribing/rebookmarking you may have to do but plead you to do it anyways!! 
> 
> this one picks up where part 3 of the series left off, but it's not necessary for you to have read anything before this. anyways.......that being said.......i'm Sorry and Ashamed, but i still hope you enjoy

At 3:52 pm on Sunday, July first, the Justice League medical evac team brings in a 25-year-old male, blood type AB(-), status: hero, code name “Nightwing” into the JL active battlefield medical station, an expansive maze-like facility constructed from translucent white plastic that’s sprung up within ten miles of every major world-ending event that the Justice League has fought in the past seven years. The facility is outfitted with state-of-the-art medical equipment and employs a team of elite, highly-trained surgeons and nurses, who are called in from all over the world during disaster-state emergencies to treat injured heroes; it is a brutally efficient place, designed for keeping people alive, and nothing else.

 

The 25-year-old male, blood type AB(-), code name “Nightwing” arrives with multiple lacerations to the abdomen, a broken leg, a collapsed lung, three broken ribs, two broken fingers on his left hand, two stab wounds to the lower back, and severe blood loss; even to the hardened JL nurses, who have seen the worse that the heroes of Earth have had to endure, he looks bad, like he’s already bled out on the gurney and now all that’s left to do is declare time of death. Upon arrival, he is rushed almost immediately into OR 13, where a team of four surgeons and five nurses set to work cutting away the mangled remains of his uniform. It takes three more nurses to hold back the hero he arrives with, a slightly younger male, status: unknown (seemingly friendly), code name “Red Hood,” from entering the operating room with them; he only relents, collapsing with shaking knees into a chair in the waiting room outside the operating corridor, when a nurse who can’t be older than he is begs him to “Calm down, sir, please, there’s nothing more you can do for him now.” When he finally goes still, eyes fixed unseeingly on the opposite wall, hands clenched white-knuckled-tight around the red biker’s helmet in his lap, she brings him a paper cup of hot tea, whispers for him to “Have hope, sir,” and leaves him to his fate, wherever it may take him.

 

~*~

 

Jason gasped awake in the middle of the night to something warm and heavy weighing down his chest, a maniacal laugh still echoing in his ears, that sickening red smile still imprinted like a lightbulb flash in the dark spaces behind his eyes. His first instinct was to thrash, or to keep thrashing (judging from the sweat on the back of his neck and the way his sheets were tangled around his legs, he was already working up to a pretty good thrash), but something was gripping each of his wrists, pinning him to the mattress. His second instinct was to throw his knee up, hard, and that, at least, made contact with whatever was holding him down, drawing a surprised grunt of pain from above him and a strained, slightly irritated “ _Jason_.” The voice sounded nothing like the malicious, gleeful taunts that still clawed at his mind; in fact, it sounded familiar, almost like it belonged to— _oh._

 

Jason opened his eyes. Dick was doubled over on the bed next to him, one arm around his stomach, aiming a dirty glare his way that softened the instant their gazes met. “Jay,” he sighed, and in an instant he was halfway on Jason’s legs again, reaching out a hand towards Jason’s cheek. Jason flinched back, mind still muddled, not entirely sure where he was or what he was doing or _why is Dick in my bed?_ ; Dick hesitated, then drew back, watching Jason with careful eyes as his gaze darted around the room, still over-bright and hazy with the lingering poison of his nightmare. Eventually, the frantic jackhammering of his heart slowed as he took in the moonlight framing the muslin curtains in the window, the undecorated walls painted soft yellow; Dick waited until his ragged gasps were replaced by deep, shuddering breaths before asking, quietly, “You with me?”

 

It took him a moment, but Jason swallowed and nodded. His gaze flickered to Dick, and he frowned, rising up off the bed on one elbow as he reached for Dick’s face. His fingertips brushed against the skin of Dick’s lip, and Dick jerked back, surprise flickering over his expression. “You’re bleeding.”

 

Distractedly, Dick reached up to test his mouth; when he lowered his hand, his fingertips came away shiny and dark. “Oh. That.” He licked his lips, swiping the blood off with his tongue, and Jason felt a shameful surge of lust shoot up his spine. “It’s nothing, I—bit my lip too hard.”

 

Mercilessly, Jason darted forward and pressed the pad of his thumb, hard, into the bruised skin of Dick’s jaw; Dick yelped and fell back, unable to hide his shock at the sudden burst of pain. “You do this to yourself, too?”

 

Dick sighed, reaching up to pull Jason’s hand away from his face. “You had a nightmare, you were thrashing, it happens.”

 

The corner of Jason’s mouth twisted as he watched him. “I don’t seem to recall _you_ ever punching _me_ in the face in the throes of a midnight nap before.”

 

“Yeah, well, you’re a heavy sleeper.”

 

Jason’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, feeling sick.

 

Dust sighed, and the sound just made Jason feel worse. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? Can we just go back to sleep?”

 

Abruptly, Jason sat up, forcing Dick to slide off his lap and back onto the bed. “Yeah, you—get some rest. I’m going to take the sofa in the sitting room.”

 

“Jason, _no_.” Dick sounded so tired, so _wounded_. “Please, just—come back to bed.”

 

Jason tensed, hands braced on the edge of the bed. When he spoke, his voice was low, calm, that perfect timbre of flatness that practically broadcasted to Dick that he was about to lose it. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“You won’t. You _won’t_.” Dick reached out, settled a hand over Jason’s shoulder, the touch warm to Jason’s sweat-cooled skin. “Hey. Look at me.” He waited until Jason glanced at him, expression tight, before continuing. “I’m not going to break, okay? I’ve been through a lot worse than this.” He snorted, shaking his head, like he couldn’t even believe he had to say this. “A _lot_ worse. Honestly, you don’t even make the top ten. So just—come back to bed, okay?” He cracked a tired smile. “I gotta meet up with Bruce in the morning, and if I don’t go back to sleep, like, right now, I’m going to oversleep and then I’ll be late and then he’ll be like”—here his voice dropped into a gravelly rumble that was maybe supposed to imitate Bruce’s Batman growl—“‘ _Punctuality is critical, Dick, the right timing could make the difference between life and death in the field’_ —”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Jason laughed, but he could already feel the tension draining from his shoulders, washed away in the warmth of Dick’s grin. They hadn’t put a name to—whatever this was between them, yet, but Jason had the sneaking suspicion that it had already evolved beyond his control, that any speed bumps he could’ve thought to put on whatever it was they were became useless the moment he realized he couldn’t look at Dick without feeling like he was gazing into the heart of a forest fire that he would gladly allow to consume him whole. He hooked an arm around Dick’s waist and threw him back onto the bed, if only to get him to stop doing the fucking Batman voice in their—fuck, _his_ goddamn bedroom, and resolutely ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him that the flames were burning his roof, and he was only adding fuel to the fire.

 

~*~

 

Tim and Damian burst into the waiting room at 6:02, covered in soot and blood and dozens of bruises and small cuts, the barely-contained panic in their expressions visible even behind the cowl and domino mask. They both spot Jason at the same time and make a beeline towards him, capes sweeping out behind them; Jason thinks, distantly, how ridiculous they look—how ridiculous they all look—in their dramatic costumes and fancy gadgets, in the middle of this sterile hospital. 

 

“Jason,” Tim barks. His voice is deceptively steady. “What happened? Where is he?”

 

Slowly, Jason raises his head and blinks up at the cowled face hovering above him. Tim is close enough now that Jason can make out how tired he looks, how scared; it’s in the way his teeth clench, how his lips twitch despite how tightly they’re pressed together.

 

“ _Todd_ ,” Damian snaps, entire body tense, “report.” He looks a little better—less hurt, but more scared, his youth showing in how he struggles and fails to hide his fear. Compared to Tim—compared to Jason, even—he’s practically broadcasting every thought that passes through his head, and all it does is remind Jason, yet again, that’s he’s barely thirteen, that he shouldn’t even be here if he’s still losing control of himself like that. But, then again, maybe that’s just Dick’s influence: He makes it hard for anyone who loves him to think straight.

 

Jason swallows, throat dry, and looks down at his own hands, limp in his lap. “He’s in surgery now,” he says, low and flat. “One of the surgeons is supposed to come out to give me an update in an hour or so.”

 

“ _One_ of the—” Tim swallows the rest of his words, jaw tightening. He takes a second to exhale, quick and sharp, before repeating, voice wrestled into that tone of forced-calm again, “What happened?”

 

Abruptly, Jason feels something hot and angry surge inside him, because _what do you think happened, Replacement, your hero complex poster boy of an older brother threw his martyr ass into harm’s way without a thought to the consequences and left me alone,_ again _, to deal with the fallout_ —but then, just as quickly as it came, the emotion dies away, leaving him just as hollow and numb as he was before. “They took him,” he says, emotionless, and god, _god_ , if he could just go back, if he could just stop it all from happening— “They grabbed a bunch of civilians and threatened to slaughter them if he didn’t surrender, and then they dragged him away and tortured him for information on the Justice League and by the time I busted him out—”He chokes on his own breath, panic rising fast and hard in his throat as he sees Dick on the floor of that cell again, still and cold in a pool of his own blood, unreactive to Jason calling his name as he cut apart the lock on the door. “Fucking— _hell_ , he wasn’t even breathing when I found him, and I—I got him to wake up for a bit but—” He shudders and falls silent, unable to continue. Tim’s eyes have closed, his face drained of color, while Damian stares at him in disbelief, like he refuses to accept the possibility that the last person who will see Grayson alive is the black sheep of the family. Jason wants, desperately, to shout at both of them, to demand to know why they weren’t there instead, why they left the protection of the most precious member of their family to the fuck-up who couldn’t even keep _himself_ alive; Jason wants to curl up into himself and sink into a black sleep, the deep, dreamless kind that washes everything away.

 

Tim opens his eyes again, the mask of calm he’s put on so thinly stretched it’s already cracking between his brows; then he asks, like it pains him to do so, “Did you contact B?”

 

Jason barely suppresses the instinct to flinch. _Fuck._ “I—no. I…didn’t get the chance.” That’s a lie; he’s done nothing for the past two hours but sit in this waiting room, staring at the wall. “I’ll, uh—I’ll do that now—”

 

“No.” Tim’s already reaching for his utility belt, pulling out his communicator from the pouch by his hip. “I’ll do it. You”—his gaze flickers down Jason’s profile, taking in the bruise-like shadows under his eyes and the tears in his blood-caked clothes—“probably shouldn’t, right now.”

 

Purely by instinct, Jason snarls, ready to lash out, but Tim just gives him a look loaded with all of the pained sympathy that Jason never expected to receive, and like that he crumbles, anger drying to dust in his throat as he realizes that Tim is not punishing him, but doing him a favor. He digs his fingers into his thigh and tells himself, for _once_ , to feel something more productive than rage; then he nods, stiffly, and meets Tim’s eyes, trying to convey all of the twisted fear and shame and gratitude he feels inside with one look. “Right,” he says, and leaves it at that, but from the way Tim’s expression softens, he understands completely. He gives both Jason and Damian a single, curt nod, a wordless order to _stay put_ , before turning and striding out into the hall outside, communicator already raised to his lips. 

 

Damian looks to Jason, face pinched tight, and Jason can’t tell if the kid is more angry at him or scared for Grayson. He’s been unusually quiet since he arrived with Tim, only speaking that one time to prod Jason into giving them an update, and Jason’s half convinced that he’ll snap any second now, call Jason a _useless imbecile_ and incapacitate all of the nurses so he can break into Dick’s OR—so Jason feels justified in starting in surprise when Damian suddenly flicks his cape out behind him and takes the chair next to Jason’s, plopping down in it with his back ramrod-straight and his arms crossed over his chest. “Do not worry, Todd,” he says, the words clipped but sincere. “Grayson is resilient. Not even your incompetence in protecting him will lead to his demise.” He shoots Jason a sideways look, eyes narrowed behind the milked-out lenses of his mask. “He will make it through this. I know it.”

 

Jason just stares at him, speechless, and it is an even further testament to Damian’s growth that he doesn’t say anything more, just faces forward again and settles back in the chair, offering up his presence as a silent condolence to the brother who sits beside him.

 

~*~

 

They buried Nightwing in a quiet, closed ceremony at Wayne Manor, on the same hill where Bruce’s parents were laid to rest, just a few feet away from Jason’s own tombstone. The sky was dark with storm clouds, the smell of freshly-turned dirt and ozone thick in the air; the gathering of heroes who had come to say their final farewells were quiet as they watched the pallbearers lower the casket into the grave, like they were all acknowledging, by virtue of their silence, that they had reached a turning point in their history: Nightwing, Robin, the first Boy Wonder was unmasked and dead, and there was no going back. Jason watched as the casket sank into the dark, damp earth and felt like he was choking on the bitter, acrid grief that welled in his throat. There were so many things he had wanted to say, but now they would be buried with Dick’s body, deep beneath the ground.

 

~*~

 

When Batman storms through the entrance of the facility, a hush falls over everyone inside, tinged with a mix of reverence and wariness and no small amount of fear. Eyes turn away as he sweeps past, like he is a ghoul from an urban legend and merely looking upon him will incur his wrath; doctors and nurses who have been strictly monitoring traffic inside the facility all day scurry aside for him, cowed by the pale rage visible in what little of his expression is not obscured by the cowl. His anger is such a tangible presence that hardly anybody notices the shadow that flits behind him, lithe and soundless, her face expressionless even as her head tilts like an echolocating bat to take in her surroundings. 

 

Jason’s entire body jerks when Bruce stomps into the waiting room, any color that had begun to filter back into his visage vanishing the instant he meets Bruce’s eyes. Bruce growls, and in an instant he’s crowding into Jason’s space, dark and towering and radiating rage; Tim, who has been leaning wordlessly against the wall since he returned from his call, starts forward, looking concerned. “Jason,” Bruce growls, and Jason swallows, mouth dry, because for all of his rebellion against the Bat code, there’s a little robin inside him still that will never fail to snap to attention at the sound of that voice. “Where is he?”

 

Jason swallows, more forcefully this time, and stiffens his spine, determined not to let Bruce see how much he’s been fucking losing it these past three and a half hours. “Still in surgery,” he says, and he can’t help that the words come out clipped; it’s the only way he can get them to come out at all, at this point. “He went in around four. They haven’t given us any updates yet.”

 

Bruce’s jaw works under the cowl, and Jason instinctively flinches back, because he _knows, okay, I fucked up, I’m sorry, I should’ve been able to save him, I should’ve—_

 

“B.” Jason doesn’t even notice that Black Bat is there until she lays a tiny, gloved hand on Bruce’s bicep, her voice calm and cool like river water. “Please.” She turns to look at Jason, and despite the fact that her eyes are covered, Jason is struck by the intense and inevitable feeling that she is picking him apart. “Jason…has done all he can. There is nothing to do now but wait.” Bruce twitches, like he’s about to protest, but Cassandra simply speaks over him, slightly firmer but no louder than before. “You both…need rest. The doctors will be done when they are done.” 

 

Bruce’s upper lip curls back, but he doesn’t argue; instead, he cants his gaze towards his other sons. “Robin, Red Robin, report,” he barks out.

 

“I am uninjured, Father,” Damian says curtly, head tilted up. “Sandsmark and Batson were also holding their own when I left them.”

 

“I’m fine, too, B,” Tim says. “Kon, Bart, and Kara are holding the northwest quadrant of the city. They’ve been checking in every hour, and so far it seems like they’ve managed to push the invaders back to the bay.” He pauses, taking in the way Cass seems to be favoring her right leg, how Bruce holds himself away from his left side. “Are you—?”

 

“Fine,” Bruce says, brusque, and Cass confirms it with a gentler nod. He hesitates, then, and Jason wonders if he will really get to see the big bad Batman cram into an uncomfortable plastic chair next to a water cooler to wait on news of his eldest son, the Dark Knight of Gotham reduced to nothing but another anxious father in a waiting room—

 

Well, as it happens, he doesn’t, because at that moment an exhausted-looking woman in pastel green scrubs and a surgical mask pushes through the double doors from the operating corridor, takes in the cluster of dirty, bleeding vigilantes in her waiting room, and sighs, like she was both expecting and fearing this. “Family of Nightwing?” she asks, and in an instant they’re all on their feet and pressing forward, the air suddenly electric with tension as they await her words. She looks at them all and her mouth turns down in regret, and Jason feels the fear solidify into a glacier inside his stomach, bleaching away any warmth he’s managed to hold onto, leaving nothing but the howling wind that screams inside his chest. 

 

~*~

 

Dick Grayson came back to life on a windless Tuesday night in Gotham and the first thing Jason did was punch him, as hard as he could, right in the face. He was filled with so much livid, burning, boiling _rage_ that he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even _see_ straight—there was only Dick in that fucking spy outfit and his hair trimmed short, eyes big and blue and pleading, and it was like literal fucking acid was dripping into his chest cavity as Jason realized, slowly but surely, that Dick had been alive this entire time, Dick had lied to them, Dick had _betrayed_ them and gone behind their backs and let them think—let them feel—

 

Jason spent the next week doing his absolute motherfucking best to avoid speaking to Dick face-to-face, lending his help to whatever it was that had gone wrong enough in Dick’s spy life for him to reveal himself to them in the first place before fucking off back to his safehouse, swearing to stay there in its relative safety until he could look at Dick’s facing without seeing red and instead feel nothing at all. But, because Dick’s status as an asshole was fucking otherworldly, the fucker himself showed up on his fire escape not three days after his return from the dead, ducking in through the window like he had any right to be there at all, like he had any right to even _speak_ to Jason after what he had done. 

 

“Get out,” Jason said the moment Dick was inside, voice cold as ice. Dick, to his credit, didn’t flinch; he just looked at Jason with hooded eyes, mouth twisted downwards.

 

“Jason,” he said, voice edging on a plea, and no, nope, Jason was _not_ fucking doing this, not today and not ever; as far as he was concerned, Dick gave up his right to ask anything of Jason the day he made Jason wish he could join Nightwing’s casket under the ground.

 

“Get. _OUT_ ,” Jason repeated, only this time it was more of a roar and Dick _did_ flinch, the expression on his face faltering into something wild and desperate—but then Dick was ducking back out of the window, Spyral-issued boots thudding on the iron landing outside before he was launching himself into the night, and Jason slumped to the floor, hands trembling, fisting his hands in his hair as he tried desperately to blink back the tears stinging the backs of his eyes.

 

~*~

 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing the surgeon says, and Jason goes cold all over again. “Your…friend was already in critical condition when he arrived; the trauma inflicted on him was…extensive, and combined with the copious blood loss, it made the operation extremely risky. We managed  to remove the shrapnel in his lungs and abdomen, as well as repair his collapsed lung, close the wounds in his back, and set his broken bones—however”—here she falters, an exhausted sort of sadness creeping into her voice, and Jason’s fists clench as he braces himself—“during the operation, a blood clot formed that pressed on his lower vertebrae, and, combined with the injuries he had already sustained in that area, resulted in…significant nerve damage to his spinal cord.” She sighs and sets her shoulders back, and fuck, _fuck_ , it must really be bad if this world-renowned _trauma surgeon_ was psyching herself up to spill it to them—

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, again, “but it’s highly possible that, if your friend ever wakes up, he will never walk again.”

 

_**If** he ever wakes up. He will never walk again._

 

Jason collapses, numb, back into his seat, throat filled with the ashes that are all that’s left of the forest fire that consumes everything in its path. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is it that i can't write jason without going FULL POETIC DRAMA QUEEN ?? ?
> 
> anyways, this picks up where _i can see you shaking when we kiss_ leaves off. still haven't decided dick's ultimate fate yet..........maybe there will be some alien magic deus ex machina, maybe there won't and dick will just have to recover the slow, hard way. who knows, certainly not i
> 
> anyways, thanks as always for reading!! part 2 is already in the works and will hopefully be coming to you soon, i only split them up this time bc i felt like it would've been too long as another oneshot. pls bookmark/subscribe if you would like to be notified when the next part comes out!


	2. anxious like the ocean in a storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulled back just enough to brush his lips against Dick’s, taking in the dazed look that had already swept over Dick’s expression before panting, voice rough, “I can’t fucking stand hearing you talk anymore”; Dick didn’t protest, just nodded, fingers opening and closing at his sides like he was malfunctioning.

Dick Grayson returned to the mantle of Nightwing in a brand-new outfit, sleek full-body black with a bright blue bird-like chevron emblazoned across his chest and slanted bands of the same color wrapping around his calves. The last time he became Nightwing again after spending time as someone else, he had abandoned the blue for a darker color scheme, the deep V over his chest a thick stripe of bloody red painted onto tar-black; Jason had hated it, hated the way it made him look like a dark parallel universe version of the real Nightwing. Now, looking at the way Dick glimmered black and electric-blue as he landed gracefully on the rooftop, Jason wished he would go back to the red—seeing the black and blue again just felt like another betrayal. 

 

Jason caught the look that Tim and Damian gave each other as Dick landed behind them, a mixture of unease and apprehension, and bit back a sigh. He knew that none of them wanted to talk to Dick—in fact, all of three of them had been pretty studiously avoiding him since his return to Gotham a month ago—but one did not just disobey the Oracle when she assigned you a mission, and since he was the second oldest and thus technically “responsible” for the younger two (or whatever), that meant that the task of dealing with their unwelcome eldest fell to him, the guy who used to fuck him. _Fantastic._

 

“Hood,” Dick greeted him, cautiously, as Jason turned towards him, and it struck Jason that the past month of silence hadn’t just been hard on the little birds: Dick looked somewhat worse for wear, too, skin pale underneath its natural golden hue and fingers a little too twitchy at his sides. “What’ve we got?”

 

“Smugglers, sixteen of them,” Jason said, as curt and toneless as he could manage; the sooner they took these jackasses down, the sooner he could split and spend the rest of the night washing away the image of the blue chevron emblazoned across Dick’s chest with a bottle of his best Scotch. “They arrived at dock 13 about half an hour ago; one ship, one cargo box, contents unknown.” He tilted his head, drawing the information that Oracle had sent him up onto the monitor inside his helmet to confirm it before continuing, “They’re scheduled to meet with Black Mask at midnight. Whatever’s in that cargo box, it’s valuable enough that Sionis has withdrawn nine hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets to pay for it.”

 

“Got it,” Dick said, reaching back for the escrima sticks strapped to his shoulders. He glanced over at Jason as he fiddled with the harness, and alarm bells went off in Jason’s head the second Dick’s brow creased. “How have you—?”

 

“ _Nope_ , you do not get to ask that question,” Jason cut him off, whirling around to stride back to Tim’s side, and he could practically hear Dick’s teeth grinding behind him. “Little Red, we good to go?”

 

“All clear, Big Red,” Tim confirmed, tucking the binoculars he’d been using to scope out the docks back into his belt. He hesitated, then glanced back over his shoulder, granting Dick a single, impassive nod. “Nightwing.”

 

“Red Robin,” Dick returned, measured; he looked ready to continue, probably to ask how Tim had been doing, too, but Jason just tilted his head sharply at him and Dick fell silent, jaw tense. 

 

“Grayson,” Damian said, rising to his feet. “I see that Gordon has decided that you will join us tonight.”

 

Dick’s shoulders loosened somewhat. “Yes, Robin,” he said, and Jason couldn’t help but hear how Dick’s voice softened for his littlest brother.

 

“Try to remain among the living this time, yes?” Damian said, shooting out a line. “I don’t think Wayne Manor has room for another of your tombstones.”

 

“ _Damian—_ ” Dick began, sharp, but Damian was already gone, swinging down onto the dock with a well-placed kick to the nearest thug’s back. Jason barked out a laugh, half-impressed and half-incredulous—he had to give the demon spawn credit: The kid could be downright _cold_ when he wanted—and followed after, Tim beside him; he caught Dick heaving a frustrated groan before shooting out a line after them and swinging down to join the fight.

 

It took the four of them half an hour to knock down and secure all sixteen of the heavily-armed, annoyingly vicious criminals; while Tim and Damian zip-tied the last of them, Dick and Jason crossed the dock to the first cargo box, Jason hefting a bolt-cutter that he’d stolen off of the smugglers’ ship. Dick stood watch while Jason set to work prying open the lock; when the chains securing the box finally fell apart, Jason pulled open the door on its rusty hinges and peered inside.

 

The bolt cutter clattered from Jason’s hand as bile rose up his throat. Huddled inside the box were almost thirty young boys and girls, most of them no older than fifteen or sixteen, squinting and flinching back as light flooded into their cramped, foul-smelling prison. His stomach churned as he took them in, handcuffs around their wrists and ankles to prevent them from escaping, looking miserable and half-starved as they clutched at each other; they stared at him in terror, whimpering and dropping their gazes as they attempted to shrink further back into the box. 

 

Next to him, there came a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “Jesus,” Dick hissed; Jason heard the rage in his voice. 

 

Jason turned on his heel and stalked towards the nearest smuggler, drawing his handgun from his thigh holster as he went. He clicked the safety off and lifted a boot, bringing it down hard on the inside of the smuggler’s knee; the thug screamed in pain as a sickening _crack_ resonated around the deserted dock. “What does Black Mask want with these kids?” he demanded, pointing the gun at the thug’s head; the thug only whimpered, thrashing under Jason’s boot.

 

“I—I don’t know—” he gasped, and Jason growled. He lowered the gun an inch and fired, and the smuggler howled as the bullet pierced his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tim and Damian rising to their feet, Dick watching him warily. 

 

“I won’t ask you again,” Jason snarled, leaning to put more of weight on his victim’s mangled leg. “ _What was Black Mask planning to do with these kids?_ ”

 

“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know,” the man sobbed. “He never told us, he just contacted us a month ago and offered to pay us half in advance—he never told us what he was gonna use them for, I swear, I _swear_ —”

 

Jason’s upper lip curled back. He raised the gun and aimed for the thug’s head—

 

“ _Hood._ ” Dick’s voice was hard as stone. “ _Don’t._ ”

 

Jason snarled out a laugh, twisted and ugly. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that, Nightwing? After everything, you still think you can tell me what to do—”

 

“This has nothing to do with that,” Dick snapped, hands tightening around his escrima. “This has never been the way we do things, and you know it.” When Jason didn’t respond, Dick sighed, short and sharp. “Besides, he isn’t worth it; he clearly doesn’t know anything about the big picture, but if we let the police interrogate him he could still give up valuable intel on how to find Black Mask.” 

 

Tim stepped forward, gaze flicking warily from Dick to Jason. “Nightwing’s right,” he said, casting a disgusted look down at the thug under Jason’s boot. “Killing him won’t solve anything, but he could be useful in helping us get to the bottom of whatever it is that Black Mask is trying to do.”

 

Jason ground his teeth, finger still itching to pull the trigger. At last, he relented, lowering the gun with no small amount of effort and stepping back to release the thug from under his boot, who whimpered, rolled over, and promptly passed out. Dick let out a shaky exhale and pulled out his radio, muttering something into the mouthpiece; then he turned to Tim and Damian, expression intent. “Robin, Red Robin, continue your regular patrols; Red Hood and I will wait here with the victims until the police arrive and report what happened tonight to Oracle.”

 

Tim and Damian glanced at each other, and then at the tense shape of Jason’s profile; as one, they nodded and took out their grappling hooks, capes fluttering behind them as they shot off lines and swung out into the night. Jason spent the next seven minutes pacing in silent fury between the unconscious thugs, sending Dick poisonous glares that he couldn’t see from under the helmet, before the police finally signaled their arrival with the sound of sirens; then he took off, grappling onto the rooftop and taking off at a dead run, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from the docks as possible. 

 

He let Dick follow him for a total of eleven rooftops before finally whirling around, letting the friction of his boot soles against asphalt grind him to a halt. “The fuck do you _want_ , Dickie?” he bit out, panting and furious, because he was _so_ not in the mood for this right now. “Was knocking out human traffickers not enough bonding time for you?”

 

“Jason, you almost killed that man,” Dick retorted, and god, _god_ , were they still fucking doing this?! “Why did you even have live rounds? I thought you didn’t do that anymore!”

 

“Really. _Really_. _You_ are going to lecture me about my morality,” Jason fumed. There had been many times in his life when he had wanted to punch Goldie in the mouth, including the many times he actually did, and this topped all of them. “You really have the fucking _nerve—_ you, who faked your own goddamn death not a year after Damian’s actual death, you, who made the entirety of Gotham feel unsafe again for everyone in it, you who just waltzed back into our lives at your convenience like it was no big fucking deal without a single thought as to what these past few months have been like thinking you were dead—you’re lecturing _me_ about _morality?_ ”

 

Jason fell abruptly silent, struggling to catch his breath; behind his white-out lenses, Dick’s eyes had gone wide. “Jay,” he said, voice catching, and no, Dick did not get to sound like that, he did not get to sound _wounded_ when Jason was the one who had had to deal with blow after blow for what felt like fucking years now—honestly, for what had been his entire fucked-up life—

 

And before he could think, Jason was pouncing forward, grabbing Dick by the back of his neck and hauling him in for a hot, brutal kiss. Dick inhaled sharply, making a shocked noise in the back of his throat, but Jason only tightened his grip, and in the next second Dick was clinging onto him, whimpering as he opened up for him. Jason groaned as he slid his tongue into Dick’s mouth, reveling in the familiar molten heat of Dick’s body against his own, before curling his fingers harshly in Dick’s hair, drawing forth a half-muffled yelp that shot a mixture of lust and satisfaction through his veins. He pulled back just enough to brush his lips against Dick’s, taking in the dazed look that had already swept over Dick’s expression before panting, voice rough, “I can’t fucking stand hearing you talk anymore”; Dick didn’t protest, just nodded, fingers opening and closing at his sides like he was malfunctioning. Jason turned, wrapping an arm around Dick’s waist, and shot off a line towards his safehouse, running on nothing but anger and lust and adrenaline, already mercilessly tamping down the voice in the back of his mind whispering that he knew what it felt like to burn.

 

~*~

 

“Jesus,” says Barbara, brokenly, when Jason tells her, com link held close to his mouth as he stands outside of Dick’s room. “He’s—is he paralyzed?”

 

Jason exhales, shaking, hand held over his eyes. “They said nerve damage,” he says, the words leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. “They’re not completely sure, but…” He swallows. “It’s probable.”

 

“God,” Barbara whispers, and Jason hates this, hates that this is happening to Dick, hates that Barbara is being forced to relive the worst event of her life. “Jason, I don’t—I don’t even know what to say.”

 

Jason’s throat constricts, but he forces down the tidal wave threatening to pull him under and irons out the cracks in his voice. “S’alright, Babs,” he mutters, reaching up to tug at his hair. “You survived it; he will, too.”

 

Barbara hesitates. “I—I don’t know, Jason,” she says, voice watery, and Jason tenses. “It’s—different, with Dick. I loved being Batgirl, but I had already given it up when I was paralyzed, and I had other things in my life. Dick…flying is who he is.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know if he’ll know how to be himself without it.”

 

At that moment, Damian moves from where he’s standing beside Dick’s bed, and Jason catches sight of Dick again—and none of it felt real until now, looking at Dick lying pale and unresponsive against creaseless white sheets, a respirator down his throat, hooked up to a dozen tubes and wires whirring furiously as they fight to keep him alive. He’s still, so still, and Jason, who can only think of him soaring weightlessly through the ocean of night, who has only ever known him in motion, quick snd sharp and burning with life, feels like he’s suddenly woken up and realized the world is wrong—

 

“Jason,” says Barbara, sharp, and Jason realizes he’s sinking down the wall, one hand fisted in his hair, the other clutching the com so lightly the plastic is beginning to crack. “Are you alright? Jason, breathe—”

 

Jason buries his face between his knees and holds his breath until his lungs burn, letting the sound of Barbara’s voice flood out his own inside his head.

 

~*~

 

At this point in his life, waking himself up with his own jagged, frantic breathing was not as rare of an event as Jason would’ve liked—except, this time, when he blinked awake to a dark room and tangled sheets, the distressed panting wasn’t coming from him. It took him a second to remember where he was—his own safehouse, naked in his own bed, with a distinctive ache to his body that reminded him that he and Dick had not been gentle so much as they had taken out months of pent-up frustrations on each other—and when he did, he turned his head towards the noise and was met with the sight of Dick on his back next to him, tense and shaking, eyes squeezed shut as he shook in the throes of a nightmare. Jason stiffened, suddenly unable to move, as he watched Dick flinch and whimper, head lolling on the pillow as his mind was overcome with whatever it was he was seeing, beads of sweat already forming underneath the hair sprawled over his forehead. Back when they were—back when they frequently slept in the same bed, he had learned that Dick didn’t have nightmares often, but when he did, they were bad—achingly, terrifyingly, say-goodbye-to-the-rest-of-your-night bad—and almost on instinct Jason reached for him, already picking through the best ways he had to wake Dick gently.

 

He stopped. What was he doing? Dick wasn’t his anymore, and more importantly, he wasn’t Dick’s. It was rapidly becoming clear that tonight had been a mistake—it had been hard enough feeling nothing when Dick had clutched, gasping, at his back, head falling onto the pillow to reveal the long arch of his neck, legs falling open to welcome Jason between his thighs—but now, watching Dick wrestle with his demons, still tasting that relentless bitterness in the back of his mouth every time Jason looked at him—

 

Jason growled and rolled onto his back, resting his hands over his stomach and fixing his gaze on the ceiling. He laid there like that for what felt like an eternity, nails digging into his palms, and did nothing at the pained, broken sounds of Dick’s breathing, trying not to hear the names that Dick kept muttering into his pillow. 

 

Around four am, half an hour or so after Jason had woken, there came a sudden, sharp inhale of breath as Dick jerked awake, chest rising and falling with short staccato breaths, the sound harshly punctuating the quiet inside the room. Jason closed his eyes and waited as Dick took in his surroundings, body trembling as he came out of his daze; then he felt the mattress shift as Dick rolled onto his side to face the wall, shoulders hunching inward as he lay unnaturally still and attempted to wrestle his breathing under control. For the rest of the night, Jason couldn’t sleep, could only stare up at the pockmarked ceiling and listen to the forced pattern of Dick’s breaths, peace such a far thing from where they were now that Jason had to wonder that they’d ever had it at all.

 

~*~

 

Stephanie arrives at five the next morning in jeans and a henley, traces of dirt and blood still visible on her face, bearing a duffel bag and the news that, with the invaders’ forces split up between the southeastern quadrant of the city and the bay, a ceasefire has been called, with negotiations scheduled for nine o’clock. “Cassie told me what happened,” she says, softly, eyes sad as she takes in Dick on the bed. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

 

There is a long pause in which none of them respond. At last, Tim exhales, offering Steph a tired smile. “Yeah, Steph, you know he will.”

 

Steph just sighs and lifts the duffel at her feet, unzipping it and turning it over to dump the contents onto the end of the bed; a rainfall of t-shirts, hoodies, and sweatpants tumble out onto the sheets. “Here, courtesy of Alf.” She glances over them and wrinkles her nose, raising a delicate eyebrow. “You should probably change; not gonna lie, you all look fucking weird sitting here in your suits.”

 

Damian scowls, but snatches the smallest set of clothing anyway and disappears into the room’s en suite bathroom; Jason and Tim both look at each other before grabbing some of the garments off the bed and turning around to strip out of their costumes. When they’ve all finished, Steph checks her watch, and then takes them in again, frown deepening. “God, you all look like shit,” she says at last, and only Damian reacts, throwing her a scathing glare that is somewhat mitigated by the fact that he’s had to cuff the sleeves of his hoodie. “When’s the last time any of you ate something?”

 

Damian huffs, clearly ready to lob back a snippy retort, when Bruce shifts, finally tearing sunken-in eyes away from Dick’s prone form. “Damian, go with Stephanie to the cafeteria.” His eyes flicker to Tim, sitting ramrod-straight but his face as pale as the sheets tucked around Dick’s body. “You too, Tim.”

 

Damian bristles. “I’m fine, Father, I am not in need of—”

 

“Damian.” Bruce’s tone brooks no argument. “Go. Now.”

 

Damian growls, but complies, sliding off his chair next to Dick’s bed to stalk out into the hall. Tim climbs gingerly to his feet and and he and Stephanie follow after, leaving Bruce and Jason alone with Dick as the door clicks shut.

 

According to the surgeons who worked on him, the anesthesia in Dick’s system is expected to wear off in the next two to three hours; when he wakes up after that is anyone’s guess. Jason has spent the last three hours slumped in a chair next to the bed, staring at Dick as he sleeps. Even mid-coma, Dick is stupidly, painfully beautiful, black hair stark against the crisp white pillowcase, the pale tint to his skin only serving to make darker the long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. Jason closes his eyes and sees, briefly, a flash of Dick caged in his arms among rumpled bedsheets, warm and laughing, the blue of his eyes visible in bright, mirthful slivers through his half-closed lids, the shiver that Jason felt in his palm as he pinned Dick to the bed with a hand to his bare chest and leaned in to mouth at his neck—

 

“Did you know that when Dick was fourteen, CPS tried to take him from me?” Jason starts, looking up to see Bruce watching Dick with his elbows resting heavily on his knees, back bowed. “He went in to donate blood at a clinic the morning after he was almost captured during patrol and a medical student saw the scars and finger-shaped bruises on his arm and thought… Within a day there was a detective and two beat cops at the manor door, all women.” He raises a hand to scrub at his face. “During that ordeal, Dick resented those women, but I just remember being…impressed with them—the student too—that they would risk the destruction of their careers and reputations going up against Bruce Wayne, for the sake of a hurt child.” He snorts, the sound short and bitter. “Though I suppose that report might have just been the straw that broke the camel’s back, considering how many black eyes and broken bones Dick had displayed in the past.”

 

“Bruce,” Jason begins, then stops. He doesn’t know what to say, mostly because he suspects that all of Bruce’s wards have been through something similar during their time with him. Even now, he remembers the conflicted concern that would pass over his teachers’ expressions when they saw the bruises on his face that Penguin had inflicted with a lucky blow of his cane the night before, or the time he broke his arm stopping Two-Face from blowing up City Hall and his science tutor kept asking him if everything was alright at home. It’s something that none of them ever openly discuss, out of fear of the implications, despite how Alfred would teach them to use makeup to cover the marks, despite how they were kept at home and made to be out-of-state on some billionaire’s son’s adventure when the injuries were too severe. Jason, even with the old resentments and moral differences that still makes his relationship with Bruce into a landmine, can’t help but feel sick at the idea that there are people out there who are convinced, with perfectly legitimate reason, that Bruce Wayne is a child abuser. 

 

“In the end, things were resolved with a story about how Richard Grayson participated in underground kickboxing tournaments against Bruce Wayne’s wishes, as an act of teenage rebellion,” Bruce says. “They bought it when Dick sparred with a rookie cop and took him down. The police figured that no one with Dick’s skills and attitude would allow anyone to lay a hand on him, so CPS dropped the case and within a month, everyone had moved on to the next celebrity drama.” Bruce looks down at his still-gauntleted hands and Jason can’t parse his expression. “But, while it was happening, Dick…he looked at me, and he told me that he was mine. My partner, my Robin, and nobody could change that.” He inhales sharply, brow creasing, as Jason looks on, frozen. “But I can’t help but think, sometimes, that it would have been better if I had just let them take him.”

 

Jason swallows, hard. He knows that this is something they’ve all thought about—where would they be now if Bruce hadn’t taken them in, if he hadn’t made them a part of his crusade? He looks to Dick and thinks about how they never would have met, never would have fought together, never would have hated and loved and broken and healed each other—and he realizes, abruptly and with absolute clarity, that it was worth it, all of the pain and anger and loss, god, it was all worth it to have had Dick against him while he slept, to have woken up to the morning light refracting in crystal-fractures in the blue of Dick’s eyes and feel like he was holding a force of nature in the circle of his arms. 

 

“Bruce,” he says, leaning forward, and the edge of urgency in his voice tears Bruce’s gaze away from Dick and brings it to him. “If he doesn’t wake up—god, if he can’t walk—you know what you have to do.”

 

There is a moment in which Bruce just looks blankly at him, uncomprehending—and then, suddenly, his eyes narrow, that brilliant mind whirring again, parsing out the implication in Jason’s words. “What do you mean?”

 

“You can save him,” Jason says, and this is important, Bruce has to understand, Bruce has to _agree._ “You can _heal_ him.”

 

His face darkens, and like that Bruce Wayne is gone and Batman is staring back at him, jaw clenched, entire posture somehow violently intimidating despite the fact that he’s only tensed. “No.”

 

Jason snarls, unable to temper his desperation, unable to stop it from morphing into rage. “ _You have to_.”

 

“I will not do that to him,” Bruce says, stone-cold, but there’s something in his eyes—guilt, or fear, or maybe the same desperation that chokes Jason’s throat. 

 

“So you’ll let him _die_ instead?” Jason demands.

 

Bruce’s entire face is a warning. “If it comes to that, I will find another way.”

 

“You mean like you did for Damian, right?” Bruce’s silence is all he needs. “Except there isn’t going to be another damn Chaos Shard this time, Bruce! Who knows how long it’ll take for you to find your ‘other way,’ who knows what state Dick will be in by then?”

 

“No worse than the state he will be in if I use the Pit,” Bruce snaps.

 

“Oh,” Jason laughs, “ _oh_ , isn’t that the crux of it, isn’t that the _real_ issue here? Never mind that the effects will be negligent if Dick is submerged while he’s still alive, never mind that it will _save his life_ —can’t have another son come back _broken_ , can we? Can’t have another one come back like _me_.”

 

Bruce glares at him, unrelenting, and Jason glares back, chest heaving, bitter with determination, because if Bruce won’t do it then he will—

 

“Jason,” Bruce says, and Jason blinks, because Bruce’s voice has suddenly lowered, his eyes tired, and, well, that isn’t how this usually goes. “Jason, please. What you went through—would you wish it on him?”

 

And Jason—Jason stares at him, abruptly speechless. His jaw tightens, and he looks away, to Dick again, always to Dick, less alive now than Jason has ever seen him. Unbidden, Jason reaches for him, fingers brushing against the thicket of Dick’s hair, those birdlike bones only serving to make him look gaunt and fragile under Jason’s touch. Even in the tenuous space between life and death, Dick looks at peace, the fine features of his face traced in the ambient yellow glow of the dimmed overhead lights, head tilted slightly towards Jason on the pillow, like any minute now he will open his eyes and smile at Jason and ask, voice hoarse and mumbled like it always is when he first wakes up, “Jaybird?”—

 

And Jason is gone, head dropping to bury in the pristine white sheets, shoulders shaking with his crumbling resolve as he curls his fingers around Dick’s own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruce was difficult to pin down in this chapter. part of me believes that he'd do anything, go to any lengths necessary, to save dick, but i also believe that, with dick not immediately dying, he'd be able to step back enough to realize that dick would never wish the lazarus pit on anyone. but if he isn't going to use the lazarus pit, you better believe that bruce obsessive wayne would find another way, especially because i really believe that dick grayson is his world. 
> 
> jason, on the other hand.............ok i can't even talk about jason, all i'll say is can you imagine that poor boy's suffering???? stab me 
> 
> anyways, apologies if this chapter is somewhat lowkey, at least it had babs & steph in it? i have vague ideas about where this is going but i'm open to suggestion--what would you guys like to see?


	3. i'm alive, but i can barely move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick swallowed. “Somewhere among these buildings, I have an ally,” he said, quietly, and Jason faltered. “He’s not a soldier in the way that you and I are, but he is a protector of this city, and he is an excellent marksman.” He lifted his chin. “If you try to bring me into your ship while these civilians are still in danger, he has orders to shoot me on sight, to prevent any information I may have from falling into the wrong hands.”

By the time they made it back to Jason’s safehouse, Jason had lost enough blood that he’d begun to feel lightheaded, knees weak and steps a lot less coordinated than he’d like as he let Dick drag the both of them through the window and into the apartment’s living room. With a grunt, Dick deposited Jason on his threadbare couch, then disappeared into his kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinet where he knew Jason kept his medical supplies. Jason groaned and let his head tilt to rest on the back of the couch, eyes fluttering shut; when he opened them again, Dick was sitting on the footstool in front of him, kit open on his lap, reaching for the gash on Jason’s chest. 

 

Jason jerked away, then winced as his wound stung in protest. “It’s fine, I got it.”

 

Dick raised an eyebrow; he looked tense and tired, like he knew what Jason was doing and didn’t have the energy to deal with it. “You’re going to sew up your own chest?”

 

Jason sneered. “Congrats, Dickieboy, looks like the Bat’s training really paid off, didn’t it?”

 

It was an old, tired jab, and from the looks of Dick’s expression he knew it. “Jason,” he said, voice tight with forced patience, “just let me stitch you up before you pass out—”

 

Jason bared his teeth and leaned over to swipe the kit from Dick’s lap; it took a moment for him to recover, but when he did, he shot back, as tightly as he could manage, “I’m actually all good here, Dickie, so feel free to fuck off at your earliest convenience, yeah?”

 

Dick’s jaw tightened. “What is your _problem?_ ”

 

Jason just raised incredulous eyebrows at him, impressing himself with the restraint he showed in not laughing in Dick’s face. “Really? You’re actually asking me that?” Dick just glared back at him, tensed shoulders and clenched fists radiating frustration, and Jason felt a ruthless strike of disbelief-fueled anger spike up inside him. “Oh, well, I don’t know, Dickieboy, maybe I’m just tired of trying to figure you out, huh? Are you a spy or a hero? A hero or a vigilante? Do you care about us Robins more, or about pandering to Batman’s every request?”

 

Jason felt a small but delicious burst of satisfaction when Dick’s expression faltered. “I—Jason, of course I care about you.” 

 

Jason gave him an ugly smile. “Of course. We’ve all seen how you show it.”

 

Dick’s face darkened, and for a moment Jason could swear that he wasn’t looking at Dick Grayson, or even Nightwing, but Batman, the same face he stared down for the entirety of that long and difficult year after Bruce’s presumed death when Dick had had to become what he swore he never would. “You know I never meant to hurt you. I did what I had to to protect you, to protect the entire family.”

 

Oh. _Oh._ Jason tilted his head back and laughed, and then, because he didn’t know what else to do, laughed some more, long and loud enough that Dick drew back. “Oh, now doesn’t _that_ sound familiar,” he drawled, teeth clenched. He hoped he looked as manic as he felt. “Looks like you went away to play spy but just came back another Bruce instead.”

 

Dick flinched like Jason had physically hit him, and _there_ it was, the rush of vindictive victory, the lush safety of righteousness and anger that kept him afloat in the ocean that threatened to consume him every time his mind flickered to Dick’s betrayal. Nonchalantly, Jason shrugged off his jacket and stripped off his ruined undershirt before picking out the disinfectant from the med kit and peering down to assess the damage to his chest; it took almost a full minute of Jason fastidiously cleaning his wound before Dick got the message and rose stiffly to his feet, face unreadable behind the domino mask still covering his eyes. He was halfway onto the fire escape by the time Jason spoke again. “ _You_ fucked this up, Dick, and this time you can’t just pull heartstrings to get out of it.”

 

There was a moment in which the only sound in the apartment was the rush of the city outside, and finally Jason glanced up to see Dick still framed in the window, half-turned as he absorbed Jason’s words, the moonlight and dappled shadow playing across his face making it impossible to tell what he was thinking. At last, he spoke, and Jason braced himself for another empty excuse, another platitude—

 

“I know.”

 

Then he was gone, just a flash of barely-discernible blue disappearing into the dark maze of Gotham rooftops, leaving Jason staring after him, the curtains still stirring from the phantom wind in the window.

 

~*~

 

Jason jerks awake to the sound of machines caterwauling in his ear and a barrage of nurses surrounding him, pulling him out of his chair by Dick’s bed and pushing him towards the door. It’s the middle of the night, so dark in the room that he has to blink rapidly until his vision adjusts, and when he does, he catches sight of the nurses surrounding Dick’s bed as Dick arches off the mattress, head tilting back to dig into the pillow, his entire body rattling like his soul is trying to escape as the monitors flash frantic red around him. Jason shouts and pushes forward, but more nurses catch him and push him back, and before he knows it the door is slamming shut in his face and he’s out in the corridor, chest heaving, veins filling with a pure, cold fear that makes him feel like he’s sinking through the floor.

 

They let him back in a half-hour later, faces gray and somber, and the doctor assigned to Dick’s care, a slender-faced woman with serious amber eyes, waits until the nurses have left the room before beckoning Jason to Dick’s bedside. In the harsh fluorescent lighting keeping the dark of night at bay in the room, Dick looks even paler than he did before; except, now, there’s a high flush of red on his cheeks, crawling down his neck towards his chest. “Your friend,” the doctor says, voice soft. “Does he have any other family?”

 

Jason’s heart shrivels in his chest. “Um. Yes,” he says, hoarsely. “They’re—” _Gone. Not here. Negotiating with the bastards that did this to him._

 

The doctor nods, catching his meaning, then gestures at Dick. “He has a blood infection,” she explains, gentle, like she regrets that she has to break this news when it’s only him to receive it. “He spiked a fever overnight, and it got bad enough that his brain started misfiring and he had a seizure. We’ve lowered his body temperature and started him on antibiotics, but his condition for the next few hours will be…tenuous.”

 

Jason shook. “Will he…”

 

The doctor looks him over and she must see something she understands, because the veneer of professionalism drops and her eyes are truly kind when they meet his. “I get the feeling that your friend wouldn’t be here in the first place if he wasn’t a fighter,” she says. “And I’m sure that he’s not going to stop fighting anytime soon.” 

 

~*~

 

“The invaders have targeted Gotham as their first point of takeover,” Bruce said, gloved hands moving with swift purpose over the holographic table, brow thunderous under the hard line of his cowl. “They’ve landed in the bay and are spreading up through the southeast quadrant of the city into Gotham Central, the Financial District, Brownstone Village, the Lower West Side, and the Narrows. Our job is to drive them back to the bay and keep them from reentering the city proper while Martian Manhunter and Superman breach the ships and identify the army’s leader.” He pulled up a quadrant of the city and spun it, the buildings and roads rotating in the air in tiny, model-scale accuracy. “Lantern, Flash, take Gotham Central. Titans, cover the Financial District and Brownstone Village. Shazam, hold the Lower West Side. Nightwing, Hood, I want you on the Narrows.”His gaze was intent across the table. “Keep those people safe, understand?”

 

Dick nodded, but Jason just scowled, raising a challenging eyebrow across the table. He waited until the other heroes had filed out of the room, heading to their posts across the city, before leaning forward, making sure he had Bruce’s attention before he spoke. “Nightwing’s injured,” he pointed out, gesturing in annoyance at the brace around Dick’s left knee, keeping the joint from swelling after a gangbanger had kicked it out of place the night before. “He’s not fit to hold anything, never mind the Narrows against an alien invasion.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll go by myself.”

 

Dick instantly scowled, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “You are _not_ taking the Narrows by yourself, especially when we have minimal idea of what we’re up against.”

 

Jason sneered at him. “You’d just slow me down, Big Bird.” 

 

“You need someone to watch your back—”

 

“Even if I did, _you_ definitely aren’t the double-agent for the job—”

 

“Enough.” Bruce glared at both of them. “Dick’s right: You can’t hold the entire Narrows by yourself.” He returned his gaze to the holographic model of Gotham, clearly signaling the end of the conversation. “Take the speeder. Report in when you arrive.”

 

Dick pushed away from the table, sending Jason a pointed look before turning and leaving for the garage. Jason turned on Bruce, teeth grinding against each other. “You know he’s not fit to fight, he’ll get himself killed out there—”

 

“Then you’ll have to watch him, won’t you?” Bruce cut in, enlarging the easternmost section of Gotham Bay to observe the docks.

 

Jason saw red. “Listen, just because _you_ don’t seem to give a fuck if any of us live or die—”

 

“That’s enough.” Bruce’s voice was ice-cold. “At this moment, eighty percent of the Justice League is still trapped in the outer atmosphere, trying to break through the aliens’ barricade, while the rest of the invaders claim more and more of Gotham every second we waste here arguing. Do not think that I don’t know Dick’s limits, but right now, Nightwing is needed, and the protection of the people _always_ comes first.” His eyes narrowed. “Now go. Unless you need me to call in Red Robin to take your place.”

 

Jason snarled, whirling around and storming out of the room—and ran straight into Tim, hovering outside the door, hidden from view in an alcove in the wall. “ _Christ_ , Drake,” he snapped, falling back, “the fuck are you doing?”

 

“You and Dick are taking the Narrows?” Tim asked, ignoring Jason’s scowl.

 

“Yeah, Replacement, what’s it to you?” Jason retorted, annoyed that Tim had been eavesdropping, again. _Does this kid ever mind his own business?_

 

Tim’s hand twitched. “I just—isn’t Dick still nursing that bad knee from yesterday?”

 

Jason paused, pushing aside the leftover anger still broiling from his fight with Bruce to look at Tim more closely. His lips were pressed thin, turned down at the corners; he was worried.

 

Jason tilted his head. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

 

Tim stiffened. “I—I don’t—” _I don’t want to talk to him. I care about him, and I worry about him, but I’m not ready to forgive him. Not yet._

 

Jason sighed. “Yeah, me too.”

 

Tim ducked his head. “Just—could you look after him?”

 

God, what a fucked-up family they had. “Yeah, babybird,” Jason said. “I’ll look after him.”

 

~*~

 

After almost twenty-four hours of refusing to leave Dick’s bedside, it is Cassandra who finally convinces Jason to take a shower and a nap in the facility’s refresher station; when he wakes after a restless four hours and stumbles, groggy and disoriented, out of the cool, dark room that houses the guest cots, she is there with a cup of coffee, a bowl of oatmeal, and an apple, all of which she forces him to finish with a pointed look of her dark, determined eyes. Only after he’s scraped the last of the oatmeal from the bowl, feeling a little more human again, does she grant him a nod of approval and allow him into the corridor that leads back to Dick’s room.

 

Barbara is there when he returns, chin propped up in one hand, thick red hair falling out of the clip holding it back from her face. She looks up when Jason enters, and there’s a haggard, exhausted look in her eyes that makes the small smile she gives him feel all that more precious. “Jason.”

 

“Hey, Oracle.” Jason takes the chair on the other side of Dick’s bed. “You kicked those alien assholes off our planet yet?”

 

Barbara snorts. “I wish it were that simple,” she says. “Remember that Luthor scare a few months ago, when he tried to incite world war three by hacking into the Pentagon’s servers and launching that nuke?”

 

“Yeah,” Jason replies, then immediately thinks, _Christ, our lives are weird._ “The JL diverted that into space, didn’t they?”

 

“They did,” Barbara confirms. “They sent it as far and fast out into the black abyss as they could—and, it turns out, on exactly the right trajectory to crash into our invaders’ home world.”

 

Jason stills. “Shit.”

 

“Uh huh,” Barbara says, an ironic twist to her smile. “Took out half a million of their people. They took it as an act of warfare, traced the rocket back to Earth, and traveled all the way here to take over our planet.”

 

Jason exhales. “That’s…one hell of a shitshow.” 

 

Barbara laughs in agreement. “Now they want reparations for all the lives they lost,” she continues. “Half a million innocents for half a million innocents. Seems like ‘an eye for an eye’ is a universal ideal.”

 

Jason blinks, speechless. “I—fuck. That’s not going to happen, is it?”

 

“Of course not.” Barbara sighs. “Though the negotiations would be going a lot better if Bruce wasn’t being… _Bruce_ about it.”

 

Jason’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

 

“Turns out Batman is only willing to be a calm, cool, and collected objective negotiator if the enemy side hasn’t put his first son in a coma and possibly paralyzed him,” Barbara says. Her face hardens. “And I can’t say I blame him.”

 

Jason swallows, hard, and glances to Dick. He looks exactly the same as Jason left him, still and quiet. “Babs—if he wakes up and he can’t—” He looks hurriedly to her. “I mean, it’s not the end of the world, but—”

 

Barbara’s smile is soft and infinitely sad. “It’s alright, Jason,” she says, and the hand that isn’t holding her head up lowers to rest on the arm of her wheelchair. “Dick’s not me. He—” She falters, expression falling. “I honestly—I don’t know how he’ll take it.” Her eyes are red as she looks to the bed. “I just know that he’ll never be the same again.”

 

~*~

 

“Hood!” Dick’s shout was raw over the sound of alien canons booming in the background. “ _Hood!_ ”

 

“ _What?_ ” Jason snapped, ducking around the corner of a laundromat to fire his rifle at the underbelly of the alien hovercraft shooting down on them from above. “I’m a little _busy!_ ”

 

“Take your evacuees and go up North Street,” Dick yelled, and Jason frowned, turning to look across the street to where Dick was crouched in the opposite alley, one arm extended to hold back the group of thirty civilians cowering behind him. “One of mine got separated from her mother, I have to go back for her.”

 

Jason scoffed. “I’m not leaving you here!” Dick had been lagging behind for hours, the pain on his face evident as he forced himself over the mountainous terrain of rubble that littered the streets. There was no way in hell Jason was going to leave him vulnerable like that. 

 

But Dick knew Jason’s weakness. “You need to get those kids to safety.”

 

Jason hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder at the group of homeless children they’d rounded up from the streets, looking back at him with wide, scared eyes. He growled before turning back. “Meet me at the evac point!”

 

Dick nodded, and Jason turned, holstering his gun before disengaging the front plate of his helmet so that the children could see his face. “Come on,” he said, nodding up the maze of backstreets that led away from the fighting. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”

 

It took him half an hour to corral the kids through the chaos and destruction that littered the Narrows to the nearest Justice League evacuation shuttle; he waited another fifteen minutes, hair on end, before growling and yanking his grappling hook from his belt, firing off a line and taking off across the rooftops. He sprinted across thirteen blocks, heart thundering in his chest, before skidding to a halt as relief crashed over him at the sight of Nightwing limping his way through the alleys four more blocks away, his huddled mass of evacuees stumbling along behind him. He holstered his hook and made to jump down—

 

And then, suddenly, an enormous, glowing cage, its bars crackling with an eerie neon-green electricity, dropped down from the hovercraft that had appeared abruptly in the sky, encasing the entirety of the group of evacuees in one fell swoop. They screamed and fell back, and Jason froze, eyes widening, as Nightwing whirled around, gaze rising to take in the cadre of alien combatants leaping down from the hovercraft and landing with earth-shaking _thumps_ in the street below.

 

The alien at the fore of the group, a seven-foot-tall horned creature with glistening purple scales, rose to its feet, surveying its victims with glittering, pupiless eyes. “Well,” it said, its voice given a strange, metallic quality by the language modulator at its throat, “it looks as if I have caught myself some new prey, no?”

 

“Let them go,” Dick snarled, hands fisted at his sides. “They’re noncombatants, civilians; they have nothing to do with this.”

 

The leader tilted its head, regarding Dick with analytical curiosity. “I believe you misunderstand my purpose here, soldier,” it said. “I have been tasked with gathering information on your planet—on your cultures, your beliefs, your _weaknesses._ Who better to give me that kind of information than civilians, am I right?”

 

The line of Dick’s shoulders stiffened. “You’re warriors, aren’t you? Where’s your code of honor?”

 

The alien barked out a cold, toneless laugh that sent a chill down Jason’s spine. “It died along with the half-million innocents on my home world.” 

 

Dick turned, eyes falling to the civilians clutching each other in the cage, and something changed in his face. He faced the aliens again and spread his hands. “Take me.”

 

Jason cursed, loudly, and began to run. The alien tilted its head, a slow smile creeping across its lipless mouth. “You?”

 

“You said it yourself,” Dick continued, voice gaining confidence as he spoke. “I’m a soldier of this world; these people are not. Those superpowered fighters up there in the atmosphere, steadily destroying your ships? I’m one of them. And I’ll go willingly with you if you release these civilians.”

 

The alien tilted its head, surveying Dick with bottomless black eyes. “I have you outnumbered, soldier. What prevents me from simply capturing you along with these civilians?”

 

Dick swallowed. “Somewhere among these buildings, I have an ally,” he said, quietly, and Jason faltered. “He’s not a soldier in the way that you and I are, but he is a protector of this city, and he is an excellent marksman.” He lifted his chin. “If you try to bring me into your ship while these civilians are still in danger, he has orders to shoot me on sight, to prevent any information I may have from falling into the wrong hands.”

 

Jason crashed to a halt, ice freezing him from his lungs to his stomach. The alien smiled, like it admired Dick’s bravado. “And I assume he will not execute his kill order if I allow these prisoners to go free?”

 

“If those civilians walk away from here unharmed,” Dick said, and Jason had never hated him more than he did in this moment, standing tall and unafraid in the face of impossible odds, “you get me. If you insist on keeping them imprisoned, you get nothing.”

 

The alien made an echoing, clicking sound that could have been laughter, but its eyes were serious as it regarded Dick. “You truly believe you are worth that much, soldier?”

 

Dick stilled, eyes flickering underneath his mask. “Not me,” he said, quietly. His mouth curled up at the corners, grim and challenging. “Just all of the government secrets and Justice League tactics you can torture out of me.”

 

There was a long, silent moment, in which the alien stared at Dick and Dick stared at the alien and Jason _could not move_ , frozen solid with the sheer force of his horror—

 

“I find that acceptable,” the alien declared at last, and even as Dick sagged in relief Jason was shouting out against the sounds of cannons going off somewhere else in the city, finally pushing himself into movement as he ran and leapt over the last rooftop separating him from Dick—

 

But, even as they bound Dick’s wrists and ankles in the same electro-energy that held the civilians hostage, that cage itself was dissolving away, and a mother was crying in pure relief as she clutched her child to her neck, like the entire world could burn as long as she was still able to hold her daughter safely in her arms. 

 

Jason dropped his gun from numb, nerveless fingers and watched the alien aircraft lift from the rubble in the streets and disappear into the dark, smoke-streaked sky.

 

~*~

 

For most of his life, anger was the best emotion Jason knew. Anger kept him together when his father abandoned him and his mother, anger filled his belly at night, anger made him a fast and relentless runner even with the weight of stolen food under his jacket. Anger kept him on his feet and swinging when the streets came for his life, anger numbed him enough to keep going after he found his mother dead on their bathroom floor, anger was the one force that pushed him to defy all the goddamn odds piled against him and keep _living_ when nothing else gave a fuck. It was hard to let go of that anger when Bruce took him in, because it was the only thing that kept him alive for so long—and when he died and came back, it was the easiest thing to relearn about being alive again, because it was the only thing that kept him from breaking apart every time he remembered that he fucking _died_ and no one gave a shit. 

 

When Dick betrayed him, it was anger that Jason fell back on, because he was convinced that if he let himself feel anything else, he would be overwhelmed by the pain and be washed back into that dark, teeming place where he lived for the first years after he came back. It was so easy to hate Dick, to push him away, to remind him constantly of what he did so that Jason wouldn’t be the only one goddamn thinking about it all the time—

 

But now—

 

Now, Dick looks like he’s already half-gone, hovering in the place between life and death and just waiting for the right moment to let go. Jason sits, hunched, in the stiff plastic chair by Dick’s bed, staring at him with eyes that burn with exhaustion. He’s the only one in the room: Cass and Steph forced Tim and Damian back to the manor for a proper night of rest, Barbara left a few hours ago to return to her never-ending task of saving the world, and Bruce is still at the negotiation table, in a ship high above them just outside of Earth’s atmosphere. Now that the fighting has ceased, the facility is quiet, the injured heroes inside nursing their wounds and awaiting news from the League. Dick is so pale that the bags under his eyes look like bruises, and the bruises on his face look like something else entirely; he twitches in his sleep, but the monitors standing beside him tell Jason that his brain activity is still low, though not as low as it was when he was in a chemically-induced coma. 

 

“You know,” Jason says into the quiet, and almost surprises himself with how rough his voice is, “I bet you’d love this, if you were awake. The whole group united in grave times, supporting each other through tragedy, looking after one another like we’re a real fucking family and not just a bunch of spandex-wearing sociopaths who beat people up at night.” He lets out a bitter laugh, fists clenching in the bedsheets. “I know you, Dickie. You’re not the perfect golden boy everyone thinks you are, are you? You’re just like the rest of us—selfish and insecure and desperate to feel loved. Only you’re always too busy being needed to need anyone else.” He’s angry again—isn’t he always—but this time, it’s because he can’t believe he didn't see it before, how could he not see it before when it was so _obvious?_ “And it’s ruining you. It’s turning you into Bruce.”

 

He leans in, something desperate and reckless welling up in his throat. “But you know what? I don’t need you, Dickie. I survived when you left; I took care of the little brats. I held this family together. I don’t _need_ you.” His voice cracks. “So you can come back. You don’t have to leave just to get away from us. You can come back.”

 

The monitors beep, quiet and steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *uploads the first 2 chapters within a week of each other*  
> me: *uploads the 3rd two months later, is complete trash*
> 
> for all of you who stayed, i bless you with my tears of gratitude :') 
> 
> in this chapter, i tried to explore how jason processes grief, how dick processes guilt, and the fact that despite being "oddly sentimental" -bruce and the sort of light to batman's dark, part of dick is very closed-off and self-sacrificial, which i think he learned at least partially from bruce. a lot of the times we see that dick is not as well-adjusted as people like to think he is, which i think is definitely to be expected when you've been a vigilante for most of your life and have seen shit as a child that most adults never see in their lifetime. let me know what you think, i love hearing your thoughts and feedback! 
> 
> p.s. fun fact: before it was luthor with the nukes, it was [plausible DC villain]. do you see how much of a poser i am now
> 
> p.p.s. this installment is dedicated to my dear bud pissvinegarandacrowbar, who is my favorite friend for all things DC-related and gave me the prompt that led to the last section of this chapter :)


	4. they've been trying hard to wake me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a nice moment, gentle and forgiving, and Jason is sure that it would have lasted longer if not for the sudden trilling of one of the monitors by the bed. Both of them whip around at the noise, and in an instant they’re on their feet, watching as Dick’s head turns restlessly on the pillow. “Bruce,” Jason croaks out, heart hammering, but Bruce just shushes him before leaning down to card his fingers through Dick’s hair and murmuring, softly, “Dickie?”

When Bruce returns to the facility, the cape and cowl have been replaced by a black turtleneck and a pair of dark-wash jeans, and Jason has to wonder how nobody recognized Brucie Wayne striding through the halls of the Justice League medical facility until he remembers that nobody sees Bruce unless he wants them to. He slips silently into Dick’s room, closing the door behind him, and doesn’t meet Jason’s eyes as he crosses the floor and takes the empty chair on the other side of Dick’s bed. Jason stares at him, waiting, but Bruce only pulls the chair closer to the bed and settles his heavy-lidded gaze on Dick’s face. The room falls quiet again.

 

Jason loudly clears his throat. “’Evening to you too, Bruce,” he says. “Negotiations?”

 

“Still in progress,” Bruce replies, levelly, but Jason wasn’t Robin for three years of his life to not be able to recognize tension in Bruce’s voice when he hears it. “On hold for now, while the League and the Kuth’lori weigh their options.”

 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re not up there.”

 

Bruce just hums, his attention never leaving Dick’s face. “I had more important things to do.”

 

That, at least, makes Jason feel like he could maybe smile if he weren’t so exhausted. “Right.” He, too, looks to Dick, so that they’re two grown men sitting on opposite sides of a bed, neither of them looking at the other as they carry on a conversation. “When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

 

Bruce’s voice is dry. “I could ask the same of you.”

 

Jason cracks his sore neck. “I slept seventeen hours ago.”

 

Bruce’s eyebrow twitches. “Sixteen.”

 

In Bruce-speak, that probably means he took a thirty-minute meditation session in one of the Watchtower’s quiet rooms, but Jason still mock-gasps. “No fucking away. I lost at taking care of myself to _you_?”

 

The smirk that was tugging on the corner of Bruce’s mouth softens into something sad. “I suppose you have my influence to thank for that.”

 

Oh. Jason swallows and returns to watching the bed, noting distantly the way Dick’s eyes flutter under his closed lids. “Nah,” he says, quietly. “I think I only have myself.”

 

A tense moment of silence billows in the room, in which Jason takes a deep breath and scrapes up the remaining ounces of courage he has left in the empty pit of his stomach.

 

“I’m sorry I—”

 

“I shouldn’t have—”

 

Their words die abruptly mid-clash, leaving the both of them to stare awkwardly at each other, surprise mirrored in their expressions. Bruce exhales and gives his head a tiny shake. “Go ahead,” he says, watching Jason. 

 

Jason clears his throat, gaze dropping to his lap. “Listen, I—I’m sorry I fucked up so bad, okay?” His voice cracks, fingers curling into fists in the fabric of his sweatpants. “It was my job to protect him, and I failed. I should never have gone on ahead of him, I should’ve stuck by him until we all made it to the evac point, I should have been bringing up the rear and watching his back—I should never have let him sacrifice his stupid-ass self like that—I could’ve saved him—I _should’ve_ saved him—”

 

“Jason.” There is a softness in Bruce’s face that Jason has never seen there before. “Stop.” He exhales, slowly, like he is gathering himself. “I never should have—I never should have placed the responsibility of Dick’s life solely on your shoulders. He was injured, and I was the one who sent him out anyway. I know that the transition back into this—into our family has been difficult for you, but Dick would not want you to blame yourself for this.” He looks so very tired. “If there is anyone at fault for Dick’s capture, it is me.”

 

Jason stares at him, speechless. He thought he would die and come back to life again before Bruce Wayne became anything that even remotely resembled emotionally well-adjusted, but here he is, sitting across from him over the bed of the person they both love the most in the world, forgiving him for something Jason is sure Bruce would’ve held against him only a few years ago. A smile cracks Jason’s expression, fragile and tremulous. “Looks like we’ve both come a way, haven’t we, old man?”

 

Bruce’s lips quirk. “I guess not even we can escape the wisdom that comes with growing older, Jason.”

 

It’s a nice moment, gentle and forgiving, and Jason is sure that it would have lasted longer if not for the sudden trilling of one of the monitors by the bed. Both of them whip around at the noise, and in an instant they’re on their feet, watching as Dick’s head turns restlessly on the pillow. “Bruce,” Jason croaks out, heart hammering, but Bruce just shushes him before leaning down to card his fingers through Dick’s hair and murmuring, softly, “Dickie?”

 

For a moment there’s no response, and Jason’s breath sticks in his throat—but then, like the sun rising after a long storm, Dick’s lids flutter open, revealing the hazy blue of his eyes underneath. “Dickie,” Bruce repeats, tremulous, and Dick blinks up at him, once, twice, before parting cracked lips to whisper, hoarsely, “Bruce?”

 

Bruce shudders, head dropping down, and doesn’t say anything more, just continues to brush his fingers through Dick’s hair. Dick’s eyes drift confusedly around the room and land on Jason. “Jay?”

 

Jason feels like he’s been frozen to the floor. “Dick,” he says, voice breaking.

 

And then, to Jason’s horror, Dick’s expression crumples. “’M sorry,” he whispers, and a wrecking ball ploughs through Jason’s chest. “I’m—I’m sor—”

 

“ _No_ ,” Jason says, and in the next breath he’s leaning over the bed, forehead pressed against Dick’s. “Don’t. You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe.” He exhales on a shudder, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

 

~*~

 

“Jason,” Roy snapped, just harsh enough to break through the whirlwind of Jason’s panic, “you’ve got to calm down.”

 

It had taken Jason nearly two hours to reach Roy’s safehouse on the fringes of Gotham, and by the time he did, he was a wreck, hands shaking so badly it took him three tries to grip the ladder that lead up to the fire escape on the side of the building. The electromagnetic jamming field emitting from the invaders’ mothership over Gotham Bay had scrambled even the Bats’ frequencies, and despite having desperately called in at least a dozen times, all Jason received back was static, which only made the panic growing in his chest squeeze that much harder around any last hints of sanity he had left. Now here he was, having fled to the only place in the city where he knew he would be able to find help, sick to his stomach at the thought that Dick was in the hands of the enemy and Bruce didn’t even _know—_ and Roy was telling him to _calm down_?

 

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do, Harper,” he snarled, shoving away Roy’s placating hands. “Dick has already been up there for two hours, and god fucking knows what they’re doing to him, so if you try to stop me from going after him I swear on my mother’s _grave_ I will rip you apart—”

 

“ _Jason_.” Roy’s eyes were hard, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “I know, okay? I know. I loved him once, too.”

 

And that—that slowed Jason in his tracks, pulled him up just short enough that he could stare at the hard expression on Roy’s face. His mouth opened, closed; at last, he swallowed, feeling a sudden and inexplicable sting of regret. “I forgot.”

 

Roy’s lips twitched. “Lucky you.” He turned away, moving across the safehouse to the expansive sheet of drawing paper that he’d laid down on the kitchen table. “I got this out as soon as you called. Kori’s on her way, but in the meantime—let’s get started, yeah?” He glanced up at Jason,eyes hard with determination, and for a brief second Jason saw Roy as Dick must have known him, back in their shared days as Titans. “We’ve got a boy wonder to save.”

 

~*~

 

Jason returns to the room with fresh coffee and oatmeal from the cafeteria to find that Dick has already fallen back asleep, curled on his side in a crescent-shaped bundle of blankets and pillows. The sight makes something inside Jason’s chest that he wasn’t even sure still existed give a sharp twist, like a stubborn and knowing reminder ringing in the back of his subconscious. Next to the bed, Bruce sits with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, one hand rubbing tiredly over his mouth, eyes fixed on the prone face before him like he’s afraid Dick will vanish into thin air if he so much as blinks.

 

Jason sets the oatmeal down on the table and hands the coffee to Bruce. “How long was he awake?”

 

Bruce stirs, tearing his gaze away from Dick just long enough to accept the drink. “Just until the nurse left,” he says, bringing the cup to his lips. “The doctor will be in soon to give us the results of his myelographs and MRIs.”

 

A cold stone of dread drops into the pit of Jason’s stomach. “You mean to tell us if he’ll ever walk again.”

 

Something shutters in Bruce’s face. For a second, Jason thinks he won’t respond; then he says, levelly, “He has feeling in his legs.”

 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “You asked him?”

 

Bruce turns back to Dick, jaw like stone. “He said they hurt.”

 

Jason inhales past the sharp stab to his chest, resisting the urge to find a chair to collapse in. _God, do the blows ever stop coming?_ He closes his eyes and takes a moment to just breathe, pushing past the fear and guilt and enormous, painful _worry_ clouding his mind in search of the right words, in search of the right thing to say to make Bruce see sense instead of just setting him off again. “Bruce,” he starts, carefully. “If Dick—”

 

“We’ll adapt,” Bruce replies shortly, and leaves it at that—like it’s that simple. And, Jason realizes, as he stares in Bruce in seven different states of disbelief, maybe it is. Maybe that’s what Jason hasn’t been seeing all this time: While Jason has been trying to fix this using logic, Bruce has been somewhere else entirely. Bruce Wayne is the most cynical man Jason knows, but maybe, when it comes to Dick Grayson, he has somehow learned to believe in miracles.

 

The door opens, and a slender, dark-haired woman, bright-eyed and surprisingly young for a Justice League recruit, enters the room, flipping through the file attached to her clipboard. She glances up as she closes the door behind her, nods in acknowledgement to Bruce, and looks to Jason. “Family of Patient ‘Chergari’?” 

 

Jason knows that it’s long been Justice League protocol for the staff to refer to heroes in their unmasked state strictly by designated codes, but it still throws him off to hear someone with an unfamiliar face address Dick by his mother’s Romani maiden name. What throws him off even more is the sudden realization that, despite the anonymous handle, both Bruce and Dick are bare-faced in front of what appears to be a total stranger—and that for some reason said stranger didn’t question Bruce Wayne, patron of Gotham City, sitting in the corner of the room, instead addressing only Jason when asking after the patient’s family. “Uh—yes, I am.” He glances confusedly back at Bruce. “We are?”

 

But the doctor, at least, appears unfazed, judging by the kind smile she gives Jason, gentle and free of any ulterior emotions. “My name is Dr. Arata,” she introduces herself. “I have the results of Mr. Chergari’s MRIs.” She glances to the bed. “Do you think he’s up for it right now?”

 

“He’s sleeping,” Jason starts, but Bruce is already leaning over, waking Dick with a gentle hand to his shoulder. Dick stirs back to consciousness with the heavy fluttering of his eyes, head lifting from the pillow as he takes in the room.

 

“Oh—hey doc,” he says. His voice is thick with exhaustion, and Jason can tell from the way he tenses up that he’s already in pain, but despite it all Dick still manages a small smile, a gesture designed solely to put the doctor at ease. “You here for me?”

 

“I am,” Arata says, with a smile that could soothe wild horses. She pulls two thick sheets of paper from the file on her clipboard and hands them to Dick. “And I come bearing good news: While the…trauma to your torso and back were extensive, the surgeons managed to treat the inflammation caused by the blood clot near your spinal cord in time to prevent most permanent damage. You’ll walk again, Mr. Chergari—in fact, given enough time and physical therapy, you’ll regain up to seventy percent of your original mobility, so you’ll even run and jump again, if you like.”

 

Her words lance like lightning through the room. Jason’s legs feel suddenly weak, but he manages to stumble over to the nearest chair before they give out completely, the relief flooding through him so strong it makes him feel a little dizzy. Bruce’s body language tells Jason all he needs to know, all of the tension draining out of him at once as he comes as close to slumping over in his chair as Bruce Wayne ever does. Only Dick doesn’t seem to react much at all, just keeps staring at the papers in his hands, face chalky-white. At last, he looks up, and if the doctor notices how his hands shake as he lowers the papers to his lap, she doesn’t say a word. “Thank you, Dr. Arata.”

 

“Of course,” Arata says. “For now, you should focus on allowing your wounds to heal, but I would recommend starting physical therapy in as soon as two weeks.” She closes the file on her clipboard and nods to them all. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions or concerns, but until then, rest well, Mr. Chergari.”

 

She’s already halfway out the door when Bruce looks up, features worn with exhaustion but finally at peace. “Thank you, Elizabeth,” he says, and Arata pauses, turning just enough to smile with her dark, bright eyes in Bruce’s direction. “You’re so very welcome, Mr. Wayne.”

 

Jason starts, twisting around to raise his brows demandingly at Bruce as the door closes. Bruce just sighs, but the corner of his mouth turns upward. “Outside of the hero community, there are exactly three civilians that know my identity,” he explains. “Elizabeth is one of them; she was one of the first people I helped as Batman, when she was still a medical student, and she in turn saved my life back before I started going to Leslie. I helped her with her student loans, and she has helped me with much more.” He sits up, glancing at his watch. “Speaking of—I have a contact in London who is one of the best physical therapists in the field, and if I call now I may be able to catch her before she retires for the night.” He stands, reaching over to squeeze Dick’s shoulder. “Get some rest, Dick.”

 

Dick finally looks up from the papers on his lap and gives Bruce a shaky smile. “I will. Thanks, B.” Then Bruce is gone, and it’s just them, Jason still slumped in his chair by the wall, Dick gazing, lost, into the middle distance, like his mind is a million miles away from a sterile hospital room.

 

And Jason—Jason finds himself, suddenly, at a loss. Granted, he’s _been_ at a loss, for the past week now, waiting on each excruciating second for Dick to live or die—but this is different. Dick is awake now, and _here_ , conscious, speaking, and Jason has the chance to say everything he wish he had before Dick was taken—

 

But there’s a space between them, gaping and undeniable. Jason helped create it, but he doesn’t know how to cross it. The anger that consumed him when Dick first came back to Gotham feels hollow now, deadened by all of the fear and adrenaline and panicked desperation that came crashing after it, and now that it’s gone, Jason isn’t sure _what_ to feel anymore.

 

Dick suddenly twitches, like he’s just realized that Jason is still in the room, and turns to look at him with bruised blue eyes. “Jason,” he says, and Jason feels a twinge of alarm at the crack in Dick’s voice. “I’m sorry, I—you don’t have to stay. You should go home, get some rest; you look exhausted.”

 

Jason’s eyes narrow. Dick looks like he’s a light breeze away from falling apart, his hands shaking where they frame the papers on either side of his lap. “Dickie,” Jason starts, and Dick’s hands clench in the bedsheets in a desperate attempt to stay still. “Are you okay?”

 

“‘Course,” Dick says, and Jason almost wants to roll his eyes: Since when did Batman’s star student get so bad at lying? “Didn’t you hear the doctor? I’ll walk again, Jay. Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

Jason rolls to his feet and strides to the bed, and he doesn’t miss how Dick flinches, even as his expression remains perfectly steady. “Dick,” he repeats, catching Dick’s gaze and forcing him to hold it. “What’s wrong?”

 

And with that barest of prodding, Dick’s entire expression crumbles. His eyes glaze over and his shoulders hunch inwards, and Jason stares, helpless, as Dick lowers watery eyes to the now-crumpled papers on the bedsheets. “I just,” he starts, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Jason comes to the horrifying realization that Dick is going to lose it. “It’s stupid, but—I don’t think—I don’t think I can come back at s-seventy percent—”

 

Oh. _Oh._ Without thinking, Jason drops to the bed, gathering Dick in his arms and holding him tight as tears begin to stain the shoulder of his shirt.

 

~*~

 

“From my reconnaissance of the ship, there are two possible entry points that shall serve us well,” Kori announced, marking two red circles on the rough diagram of the ship laid out on the kitchen table. “The first is the main entrance, with corridors leading directly to the control bay; with the ship in enemy territory, it will be heavily guarded. The second is what appears to be a cargo dock, located on the opposite side of the ship.” She looked up to meet Jason’s gaze. “That, I believe, will be your best chance at rescuing Dick.” 

 

“While you and Roy act as the distraction to draw the guards to the other side of the ship,” Jason filled in, eyes narrowing.

 

Roy nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s the plan.”

 

“No.” Jason shook his head. “It’s too dangerous; I can’t let you two go in there alone.”

 

“Jason,” Kori began, patient but firm, in the same voice she always used whenever she was about to do something Jason didn’t like, “this mission is no more dangerous than the dozens that you, Roy, and I have carried out in the past. We are more than capable of handling ourselves; this, you know.” She tilted her head, glowing green eyes picking him apart. “I believe you are anxious. You have already lost Dick, and you do not want to lose us as well.”

 

“I haven’t lost him,” Jason snapped. _He’s still up there, he’s still alive—he has to be—_

 

Kori’s voice gentled. “No, you have not.” She reached out, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “We will get him back, Jason, but while Roy and I have each other, _you_ will be on your own. It will be dangerous, and difficult, especially without knowledge of where Dick is being held on the ship. Are you certain that you do not wish to wait until you are able to contact Batman before attempting this rescue?” 

 

Roy sighed, shifting to lean back against the counter. “You know that I hate to give him credit, but having Big B on this _would_ up our chances.”

 

Jason gnawed on his lip, glancing out of the kitchen window to the dark shapes of the invaders’s ships looming in the smoky red sky above Gotham. In the logical, tactical part of his brain, the part that clawed its way out of the roiling depths of the Lazarus Pit and made him a tactician and a leader, he knew that waiting until he could get in contact with Bruce or Tim or Barbara or any member of his family was the most strategically sound move, with the best chances of success and thus the best chances of ensuring Dick’s survival. 

 

But the other part, the part that was once Robin, the part that still lived in the moments between each of Dick’s soft, tired kisses, the part that still raged at the world because it wouldn’t just let him be, it never just let him have what he wanted, it never just let him be _loved_ —

 

That part made Jason turn to Kori and Roy, jaw clenched. “No,” he said, voice hard. “We go tonight. I can’t”—he shuddered, hands curling into fists on the table—“I can’t risk leaving him up there any longer. I can’t—I can’t risk losing him.”

 

And his friends, because they’re his friends, just nod in agreement, his own determination reflected in their faces. “Understood,” Kori said, while Roy snorted, leaning over the table with a gleam in his eye.

 

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go break into an alien warship.”

 

~*~

 

Jason spends the night on the couch and wakes to Bruce slipping into the room, silent so as not to wake his still-sleeping eldest, wearing a fresh turtleneck that is probably not the same turtleneck he was wearing yesterday and carrying a change of clothes for Jason. “Tim, Damian, Stephanie, Cassandra, and Alfred are on their way to see him,” he says, as Jason groggily accepts the clean shirt and jeans, rubbing the remaining sleep out of his eyes. “I came ahead to give you these and the chance to wash up before they arrive.”

 

“Thanks,” Jason mutters, grasping the collar of his sweat-stained t-shirt and tugging it up over his head. “How’re the little brats?”

 

Bruce’s mouth quirks, but it’s not displeased. “Better, knowing Dick is awake.” He watches Jason as he changes, something inscrutable in his expression. “How are you?”

 

“What?” Jason pulls on the fresh shirt, adjusting the fabric over his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

 

Bruce’s eyebrow ticks upward. “Have you left this facility since Dick was brought here?”

 

_Uh_. “To do what?” Jason retorts, standing so he can shuck off his rumpled sweatpants. “Worry about him fifty miles away when I could just do that here in the convenience of his room?”

 

How is it possible that Bruce manages to convey disbelief, disapproval, and concern without moving a single muscle in his face? “Space is important, Jason.”

 

Jason looks up in the middle of buckling his belt. “Are you seriously telling _me_ this? You, Mr. I’ve Never Taken Space From Anything In My Life?”

 

For a second, Jason thinks Bruce might actually be offended; then Bruce just sighs, a gesture of defeat. “Fine, point taken. I’m going for coffee; Alfred and the others should be here by nine.” _Huh._ Jason frowns thoughtfully, watching Bruce as he leaves. He wonders idly if Bruce actually ended up seeing that therapist Leslie started recommending six years ago.

 

“Was that Bruce?”

 

Jason starts, turning to see Dick struggling to raise himself up onto his pillows, features contorted in a grimace that he tries to hide as soon as Jason moves toward him. “Yep,” Jason confirms, ignoring Dick’s noises of complaint as he hooks his hands under Dick’s arms and hoists him up. “Came to let us know that Alf and the little birds are coming to visit the family favorite.”

 

“Cass was never a bird,” Dick points out, pulling the sheets up to his chest, “and I’m not the favorite.”

 

Jason raises a brow. “You’re right,” he says. “Cass was always too good to be a Robin. Also, you can drop the ‘I’m not the favorite’ bullshit, it’s just me here, I won’t get offended knowing I’m not the light of everyone’s life.”

 

Dick frowns, hair hanging over his eyes as he fidgets with his sheets. “I’m not, and I wish you would all stop saying that I am.”

 

Jason blinks. “Dickie,” he starts, incredulous, “are you serious? I’m pretty sure Bruce still thinks you saved him from the dark side or whatever, the entire hero community jumps at the chance to call you the best of them, and our younger siblings practically worship you—they’re actually all together, at the same time, not killing each other, on their way to see you right now.”

 

Dick exhales. “Never mind, let’s drop it.”

 

“No, wait—” Jason moves closer until he’s practically towering over the bed, a little angry now for reasons he wouldn’t admit if there was a gun to his head. “I want to know why you’re convinced you’re not the favorite.”

 

Annoyance flickers over Dick’s expression. “Are you serious? How egotistical do you think I am?”

 

“It’s not ego, Dick, it’s fact,” Jason grinds out. “You’re everyone’s first and favorite—it even alliterates. Bruce’s Robin, Tim and Damian’s older brother, the child sidekick to the original big seven, the leader to the Titans. I want to know how you can possibly think you’re not.”

 

“Jason—”

 

“Tell me, Dick, because I would really like to know the thought process involved here—”

 

“They’re all on their way to see me because I’m hurt,” Dick snaps, so suddenly that Jason falters, “because that’s what family does, when they can—I haven’t talked to any of my old teammates in years, and half of them hate me now anyways—and Bruce—” He swallows. “Maybe once, but…I haven’t made him—laugh in a long time, or made him smile, or made him p—” He stops abruptly, face pale.

 

Jason stares at him, speechless. “Dick,” he begins, because although he isn’t sure exactly how to respond to _that_ , he does know that it’s sure as hell going to be _something_ that disabuses Dick Grayson of the notion that he isn’t the most loved son-of-a-bitch in their entire community of fucked-up, emotionally repressed spandex-wearers—

 

But before he can, the door opens and Damian, Tim, Cassandra, Stephanie, and Alfred all come flooding in, their shouts of greeting filling the room as they catch sight of Dick awake and upright on the bed. Dick’s face shifts instantly, a broad smile splitting across the chalky, shaken expression that was there before, and Jason can only stare, a sudden and disquieting realization striking him at how quickly the change came. “Hey guys,” Dick says as he tears his gaze away from Jason, laughing with all the ease in the world as his siblings crowd his bed. “How was your week?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 4!!! my apologies for a relatively uneventful chapter--um, except for the big Event that happened, i guess. in this chapter i've finally begun to introduce some of the issues i really want to explore with dick--namely, how alone he seemed to be in the new52??? like he had this entire network of friends and family pre52, he was so close with bruce, he had a million teammates and ex-teammates, he had such a strong relationship with tim--but it all disappeared in the new52. i read this amazing fic once where new52 dick meets pre52 roy and is told that in a parallel universe, he was deeply loved, while in his current life he barely even has the relationships he has with his family and other heroes. my timeline is sort of like a hand-wavey combo of pre- and new/rebirth, so i really wanted to explore what this linear fallout in support would do to someone like dick, and how it would affect his mentality about himself--plus, how that would clash with jason's perspective, who, in contrast, has gained a more significant network in the new52 than what he had pre52, but who was never considered the "favorite" and who has always had to fight for love and attention. 
> 
> also, this chapter features what i WANT bruce's relationship with dick and jason to be like, and the reintroduction of Pre Alien Invasion tensions between dick and jason into the Post Alien Invasion situation. hope you all enjoyed, please leave a comment if you have any thoughts, and thanks for reading!! :)
> 
> p.s. bonus points to whoever can identify where i stole jason and roy's "i forgot" "lucky you" from!


	5. phone keeps ringing in another room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason stills. Murder Machine. He knows it, of course—pored over it in the reports Batman released of Nightwing’s death, researched it in obsessive grief in the days after Dick’s funeral, stood and watched, almost numb with how much it fucking hurt, when the Justice League destroyed it—but he hasn’t thought about it since Dick’s return to Gotham, since his return to the living. Hasn’t thought about the possibility that, just because Dick isn’t dead, it doesn’t mean that nothing that happened during that battle was true.

“We’ve got: One AR-15, two EMP bursts, two cluster bombs, and one M72 launcher with”—Roy grimaced as he clunked the last piece of artillery down on the table—“exactly one disposable casing.”

 

Jason stared at him. “That’s it?”

 

Roy raised an eyebrow back at him. “Unless you want to try your hand at my trick arrows?”

 

“Your name is _Arsenal_ ,” Jason snapped, incredulous. “Where the fuck is your arsenal?”

 

Roy scowled. “In case you haven’t noticed, Jason, we’re in the middle of an _alien invasion_ ; I _was_ doing something before you showed up here.”

 

Jason’s teeth clenched. “And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?”

 

“Yeah? When would I have done that? Before your breakdown about Dick getting captured, or after your spiel about how you can’t lose Dick?”

 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me right—”

 

“ _Enough_.” Kori’s eyes blazed green, and Jason and Roy instantly fell silent, glowering at each other across the pile of weapons. “ _Bickering_ will not get us anywhere, and it will not help Dick.” She turned to Roy, jaw set. “I have no use for weapons. Give Jason the rifle and the EMPs, and keep the bombs and launcher for when we carry out our attack on the ship. Jason—I presume you still have your own equipment?”

 

Jason shifted, taking comfort in the familiar weight of the various handguns and knives tucked into his armor. “Yeah.”

 

Kori nodded. “Good.” She glanced between them. “It’ll do. We have been in worse situations with far less.”

 

Roy held up for all of three seconds under the pointed weight of Kori’s look; then he deflated, raking a hand through his unbound hair. “Yeah, guess we have.” He caught Jason’s gaze, the quirk of his mouth apologetic. “Gotta wonder how we keep getting into said situations, don’t you?”

 

The brief flare of anger that filled him just seconds ago was already long gone, and Jason could only smirk, tiredly, back. “No idea; all I know is that somehow, we always get out of them.”

 

Roy nodded, eyes lowering in thought, and for a moment Jason thought he was studying the stockpile of weapons—but then he looked up again, and his mouth was pressed into a grim, uneven line. “Jason—I know you need him back, but…we really are outnumbered here.” He reached out and grasped Jason’s forearm, like he wanted to be sure that all of Jason’s attention was anchored on him. “You gotta promise me that if things go south, you’ll get out, okay? You have to leave him.”

 

Jason tensed. “Roy—”

 

“Jay.” Roy’s eyes flashed. “We have an exit plan for every mission for a reason.”

 

Jason opened his mouth, helpless. “Roy, they’ll kill him.”

 

Roy swallowed. “Maybe—but they’ll kill you a lot faster if you get caught.” His grip tightened. “Jason. Promise me.”

 

Jason stared at him, and for what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t get the words out past the knot in his throat. At last, he gave a single, stiff nod. “I promise.”

 

Roy’s gaze was unrelenting. “Say it. You’ll leave him, if you need to.”

 

“I’ll leave him,” Jason said, the words like bile on his tongue. “I’ll leave him, if I need to.”

 

~*~

 

Dick spends the next twenty-four hours alternating between sleeping, picking at the hospital food Tim and Cass bring him, and cajoling his team of doctors and nurses with sad, petulant blue eyes until finally, on hour twenty-five, Elizabeth Arata throws down her clipboard, scrubs the heels of her palms across her eyes, and declares, voice leaking with exasperated fondness, “ _Fine_ —I’ll sign your release forms, but only if you _swear_ to me that you will remain on bed rest for a week after you leave this facility.” Dick just beams, triumphant, and from where he’s set up camp on the couch in the corner, Jason just snorts—he almost forgot what a fucking force of nature Dick Grayson is.

 

Hour thirty-seven sees Cass helping Dick off the bed and into the wheelchair Arata “loaned” them while Bruce sits on his tablet reading through memos from the Justice League and Tim and Damian wander around, gathering up the various items of clothing and equipment that are strewn around the suite from the family’s visit. “Your living habits truly require work, Grayson,” Damian sniffs, picking up a book lying open and face-down from where Dick had tossed it, bored, the night before. “Fortunately, you will have the chance to learn good practices from Pennyworth while you recover at the manor.”

 

Tim stills at that, his mouth pulled into the beginnings of a grimace, and that’s how Jason knows that something is wrong. From where he’s steadying himself against Cass on the bed, Dick looks up, surprised. “Dami, I’m not—I’m not going to live at the manor.”

 

Jason instantly sees the problem and resists the urge to heave a loud, long-suffering sigh. _Ah, shit._

 

Damian frowns, slowly. “Well—I suppose eventually you may wish to live on your own again, but I was only referring to the time you’ll spend with us while you heal from your injuries.”

 

Bruce is looking up now, too, eyes narrowed, and Jason catches Tim’s eye. _Fuck_ , he says, wordlessly.

 

 _Fuck,_ Tim agrees silently.

 

“Dami, I have my own apartment in Gotham,” Dick says, patiently. “That’s where I’m going now, to recover.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous—” Damian begins, mouth twisting into a stormy scowl, looking ready to put up the fight of his lifetime—except Bruce beats him to it, voice flat as it cuts across the room.

 

“You’re staying with us at the manor. I’ve already arranged it.”

 

Dick twists around to stare at Bruce, and Jason sighs, tipping his head back and throwing his arm over his eyes. “Bruce. No, I’m not.”

 

Bruce’s eyes are chips of slate in his expressionless face. “This is not up for debate, Dick.”

 

Dick’s voice is tense, a thin veneer of forced calm stretched over the resentment that’s beginning to broil underneath. “Bruce, I’m an adult. You can’t force me to live with you.”

 

“You are _injured_ , Dick,” Bruce grits out. “You need help.”

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

“You need medical care, intensive therapy—”

 

“Yeah, which I can access just fine on my own, thanks, I _do_ have insurance—”

 

“For god’s sake, Dick, you can’t walk!” Bruce bursts out.

 

Jason’s eyes fly open and he whips his arm off his face as he sits upright. The room is frozen, like someone has taken the scene and stopped the clock, and the tension in the air is so thick it almost chokes him. Tim and Damian are standing stock-still across the suite; Damian’s eyes are shocked as they flit between Dick and Bruce, and Tim’s expression is pained and reluctant, like he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. Dick has gone pale, trembling against Cass’s side, lips opened uselessly around an aborted protest; Cass herself is watching him carefully, mouth pulled down in a worried frown, something sad and resigned in her eyes. Bruce is staring back at Dick, gripping his tablet so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.

 

“You can’t walk, Dick,” Bruce repeats, voice hoarse, and Jason rises from the couching without thinking. “Please. Let me help you.”

 

Dick stares at him for another second, eyes wide; then his gaze drops, a high red flush crawling its way up across the sickly pallor of his face. Next to him, Cass sighs, tightening her hold around his torso.

 

“Come on, big brother,” she says, and in one smooth motion lifts him from the bed, depositing him gently into the waiting wheelchair. Dick blinks up at her, a little stunned; then he seems to realize where he’s sitting, and his face falls into perfect blankness, a hollow look stealing into his eyes that has even Damian shifting restlessly. But Cassandra only smiles, small and sad, and brushes a hand comfortingly through the ends of his hair.

 

“Have faith,” she murmurs, reaching down to squeeze his hand. “I do.”

 

Dick looks up at her, and just for her, a small smile curls at his lips, the first genuine one Jason has seen on Dick since Dick woke up—the first one he’s seen, Jason realizes, since when he still thought Dick was _dead_. It makes his chest hurt, deep and twisting. He missed that smile. God, he missed it.

 

Tim clears his throat, shoves the two hoodies and lose shoe that he’s holding into Damian’s arms, and ignores the outraged noise Damian makes to stride across the room, taking hold of the handles of Dick’s wheelchair. “Ready to get out of here, ‘Wing?”

 

Dick inhales, shakily, and looks back to meet Tim’s eyes. “Yeah, Red.” He glances to Bruce, then looks away just as quickly. “Take me home.”

 

Both Bruce and Damian exhale at that, at least some of the tension in their postures replaced with relief, but Jason doesn’t miss the look that Tim and Cass share, or the way Dick’s head is tilted down so his hair covers his eyes. He sighs, takes the wad of assorted clothes and possessions off of Damian’s hands, and joins Tim and Cass by Dick’s chair, nodding to the propped-open door and the corridor outside, bright with mid-morning sunlight and busy with all of the other healing heroes who are well enough to begin making their way out of the facility. “Come on,” he says. “I think we’ve all had enough of this place.”

 

~*~

 

An eerie quiet had descended over the city, the frantic screaming and deafening artillery fire of earlier faded into muffled booms in the distance. The streets were deserted, all of the civilians who had managed to escape the invaders’ initial attack herded into the shelters the Justice League had set up just outside of Gotham, and for a moment Jason could believe that the world had already ended, and he, Roy, and Kori were the only ones left, piloting a cloaked jet towards the cluster of alien ships looming over the bay.

 

Roy’s head popped into the space above Jason’s right shoulder, eyes searching ahead. “You sure that’s the right ship?”

 

Jason fixed his gaze on their target, a smaller vessel hovering just below the main fleet. The insignia on its side, distinguished from the main symbol of the invaders’ military with a few added embellishments, had been the last thing he saw before that ship took off with Dick inside; he was pretty sure he would carry it with him into his dreams. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”

 

Kori leaned into the space over Jason’s left shoulder and followed his gaze. “That is the ship I surveyed,” she confirmed, nodding.

 

“Awesome,” Roy muttered, eyes flicking nervously to the mass of ships drifting just above, like a dark swarm against the russet sky. “Cool cool cool.”

 

“Alright, let’s go over the plan one last time,” Jason said, as they drew closer to the bay. “I fly us to the main boarding point of the ship, drop you guys off, and wait until you’re inside the ship before I maneuver around to the cargo bay and enter there. You do your thing, I’ll find Dick, and once I give the signal over the comms, we meet back up in the cargo bay. I’ll suction the jet to the outside of the ship just outside the bay door, so if things get messy in there and I can’t make it back in time, I want you to take the jet and get out as fast as you can—”

 

“We will not leave you, Jason,” Kori cut him off, at the same time that Roy snorted, “Yeah, fat chance.”

 

Jason resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Sorry, was it you who was just lecturing me on exit plans or some other trigger-happy red-haired idiot I know?”

 

Roy looked offended. “Exit plans don’t apply to members of our own team, Jason, don’t pretend like—”

 

Jason straightened. “Roy, shut up.”

 

“No, for once in your thickheaded life you’ll—”

 

“ _Roy_.” Jason leaned forward and pointed. “Do you see that?”

 

“See what?” Roy demanded, irritated, but Kori was already leaning forward, head tilted as she looked to where Jason was gesturing.

 

“Yes,” she said, eyes narrowing. “It is…green?”

 

It _was_ green, a streak of bright green light steadily zooming its way towards the shore over the bay, keeping just close enough to the water to stay out of the range of sight of the fleet of ships drifting above. It took Jason approximately two seconds to realize what it was; then he was slamming his hand down on the button to retract the roof of the jet and clambering up onto his chair, reaching for the flare gun in the compartment under the control board as he went.

 

“Jason, what—” Roy started, but Jason was already taking aim and firing, gaze intent as he watched the flare shoot in a near-horizontal vector towards the source of green light.

 

Two minutes later, a man in a white domino surrounded by a halo of hard energy pulled up to the jet, a highly disgruntled expression on his face as he clutched the fizzing flare in his hand. “Alright,” Hal started, brow rising impatiently. “Who tried to shoot me?”

 

~*~

 

Jason enters the room with arms full of fresh towels and linens to find Dick sitting propped against the headboard on his bed, eyes half-lidded as he gazes out the window, the custom-fit crutches Bruce produced from thin air the minute they stepped inside the manor resting innocuously against his nightstand. Jason sets the linens down on the end of the bed and moves closer to the head, reaching a hand out to brush a thumb over Dick’s cheek. “Dickie?”

 

Dick stirs, blinking up at Jason as his gaze clears. “Jay.”

 

Jason curls his fingers under Dick’s chin and tilts his face up. “You alright?”

 

“Mmm.” Dick sighs, relaxing into Jason’s palm, and Jason’s chest twists at how pale he looks. “Just a little tired.”

 

“I brought you fresh sheets, courtesy of Alf,” Jason says, gesturing to the pile on the bed. He glances around, taking the room in. “Been a while since you stayed here, huh?”

 

“Ages.” Dick’s mouth quirks ruefully. “Still looks exactly the same, though.”

 

Dick’s childhood bedroom _does_ look exactly the same—Jason would know, from when he used to sneak in here during his days as Robin, a chubby-cheeked thirteen-year-old looking around in silent awe at the space his predecessor once occupied. The stacks of criminology and computer science textbooks shoved haphazardly into the bookcase, the boxes of picked-apart gadgets left to gather dust against the righthand wall, the elephant plush on top of the dresser and the worn _Flying Graysons_ poster above the bed and the hand-painted Romani prayer framed on the desk—all of it kept carefully spotless but otherwise left untouched, as if simply waiting for its owner to return to claim them again. It’s a testament to Alfred’s love, Jason thinks to himself. Bruce’s, too, except that he’d never admit it.

 

“It’s actually a little weird,” Dick says, with a strained laugh. “I feel like I’m sixteen again.”

 

Jason glances down at him. “I think you should lean into that.”

 

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I’d sell a kidney to see you in the hotpants again.”

 

Dick snorts, a hint of mirth breaking through the exhaustion on his face, and Jason grins, satisfied. He watches as Dick reaches up for the hand still on his face. “Are you staying?”

 

Jason falters. “I, uh—I got a thing.”

 

There it is: The minute fall in Dick’s face, before everything gets neatly bundled up and shoved back behind a mask of cheerful complacency. Part of Jason is proud that he’s able to recognize it, now that he knows what he’s looking for; the other part of him feels a little sick. _Jesus, Dickie_ , he thinks with a sigh, watching as Dick gives him one of the fakest smiles he’s ever seen. _How have you not combusted by now?_

 

“Oh. Yeah, of course you’d be busy. The city’s probably a wreck, isn’t it?” Dick gingerly returns Jason’s hand to him like it’s a time bomb and sinks back into his pillows, gaze flickering away. “Thanks for helping me get settled. I’ll see you around?”

 

For a long, heavy moment, Jason just stares down at Dick, torn. There are a million thoughts whirling through his mind, thumping against the inside of his skull in an attempt to get him to pay attention to them, screaming out demands of _what are you doing_ and _what are we now_ and _what do I do what do I do what do I do_ —but all of them quiet in the face of the shadows under Dick’s eyes, the way his forced smile is flawless all the way up until the very edges, where it starts to break down. Jason swallows, makes a decision, and sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching down to unlace his boots. “Fuck it, it’s not important.”

 

Dick stares at him, real surprise on his expression. “Jason?”

 

Jason kicks off his shoes, turns onto the bed, and hooks his arms around Dick’s middle, dragging him down into the pillows. “My thing. It’s not important.”

 

They’re lying together now, face-to-face, Dick securely in the circle of Jason’s arms. From where their legs are pressed together, Jason can feel Dick’s foot just barely twitch against his calf, and the tiny motion fills him with a furious mixture of sadness and desperate hope. “You’re staying?” Dick asks, voice dropped into a whisper.

 

Jason sighs, pulling Dick closer; after a beat of hesitation, Dick nestles his head in the curve of Jason’s neck. “Yeah, Dickiebird, I’m staying.”

 

“For how long?”

 

Jason wets his lips. “For as long as you need me to.”

 

There’s a minute of silence, Dick’s eyelashes fluttering against the sensitive skin of Jason’s throat. At last, Dick says, voice small, “Thank you, Jason.”

 

Jason presses his mouth to the crown of Dick’s head. “Yeah, Dickie. Anytime.”

 

Dick swallows and presses closer, like he’s trying to burrow into Jason’s side. “Jay. Can I ask you something?”

 

Jason nods. “Sure.”

 

“Promise me you’ll give me an honest answer.”

 

Another nod. “Sure, Dickie.”

 

Jason can _feel_ the hitch in Dick’s voice, as much as he hears it. “Do you think, one day, you’ll be able to forgive me for what I did to you?”

 

Jason closes his eyes and takes in a long, slow breath. He’s been wondering the same thing, for a long time now; it’s hard to give an honest answer when he isn’t even sure what that might be. Finally, after too many tense, thudding heartbeats, he exhales everything built up in his lungs and tries to breathe back in nothing but air. “One day, Dickie,” he says, quietly. “One day.”

 

Dick nods, his dark head rising and falling just on the lower periphery of Jason’s vision. “Okay.”

 

Jason reaches a hand up to stroke his fingers through Dick’s hair. “Talk about something else?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Hmm.” He presses his fingertips into the nape of Dick’s neck and smiles when he feels Dick shudder against him. “Your physical therapist flies into Gotham tomorrow. How do your legs feel?”

 

Dick groans. “I like this topic of conversation even less,” he murmurs, voice growing fainter as his body relaxes against Jason’s. “They’re—alright. I can move them, a little, which is more than what the doctors expected. But it hurts, every time I do.”

 

Jason continues to massage his fingers into Dick’s hair. “Are you nervous?”

 

Dick doesn’t answer for so long that Jason thinks he might’ve fallen asleep. “No,” he says at last, and at last some of that exhaustion that Jason has seen him carrying around everywhere has begun to seep into his voice. “Just—scared.”

 

Jason’s throat constricts. “Scared you won’t be able to walk again?”

 

Dick breathes out, forehead pressed to Jason’s clavicle, and tells Jason the honest truth. “Scared I won’t be able to fly.”

 

~*~

 

By the time Jason finished his fast-track recount of everything that had happened, Hal had gone pale in the face, a disquieted twist to the corner of his mouth. “Jesus,” he said; then, “Does Bats know?”

 

Jason’s jaw clenched. “No, I haven’t been able to get through to him—the jamming field, it’s scrambled our comms—”

 

“Yeah, I haven’t been able to reach the others either,” Hal sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “And as far as I know, most of the League is still stuck in the outer atmosphere trying to break through the barricade.”

 

“I’m not waiting for them to get through,” Jason said bluntly. “The second any intel Dick might have becomes any less useful, they’ll off him. I’m getting him now.”

 

The hard line of Hal’s mouth softened. “Yeah, kid, I know.”

 

Jason blinked. “Well—good. Are you going to help me or not?”

 

Hal sighed, glanced up at the alien fleet looming over their heads, and shrugged. “Of course,” he said. “When has Hal Jordan ever turned down a suicide mission, am I right?”

 

Jason lifted an eyebrow. Beside him, Roy snorted. “Awesome,” he said. “I guess that means we’ll need a new plan?”

 

~*~

 

This time, when Jason wakes to the sounds of panicked breathing, he knows exactly whose it is—trauma is an old friend by now, and he knows that no one, no matter how seasoned they are, walks out of torture and debilitating injury without their share of psychological scars. Dick’s eyes are squeezed shut, but his face is pulled tight in fear, mouth twisted and brow furrowed as muffled, pained sounds break free from his throat. He’s thrashing, too, head tossing on the pillow and elbows striking out, but the limited mobility of his lower half cuts his momentum short, so that the forearm that collides with Jason’s shoulder only thumps dully instead of hitting with the full force he knows Dick is capable of. Jason’s first instinct is to tighten his arms, but he knows from experience that all that will do is trigger Dick’s latent claustrophobia; instead, he carefully withdraws, places a hand on each of Dick’s shoulder, and presses him down into the bed so that he can’t hurt himself. “Dickie,” he whispers, staring down into Dick’s agonized face. “Dickie, wake up.”

 

Dick tenses under Jason’s weight. “No,” he whispers, voice strangled, “please, no—”

 

Jason’s throat constricts. “Dick,” he says again, a little louder this time. “C’mon, baby, wake up. You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

 

Dick jerks, eyes flying open so suddenly it’s almost violent. For a moment he just stares up at Jason, gasping, and Jason stays still and waits, waits—

 

—and then reality seems to strike, and the tension drains from Dick’s body. “Fuck,” he croaks out, going lax under Jason’s hands. “Fuck.”

 

Jason leans back, releasing Dick from his hold, and lays back down beside him. “You alright?”

 

Dick swallows, heavily, and Jason watches him in profile as he struggles to rein in his jagged breathing. “Yeah,” he says, short and tense, voice thick. He abruptly shudders, reaching up to grind the heels of his palms into his eyes; in the moonlight that filters through the half-drawn curtains, the tears that break in a thin stream from behind his hands glimmer like spilt mercury. “Fuck. No.”

 

Jason watches. “Is it what they did to you up there?”

 

Dick inhales shakily. “Yeah. That, too.”

 

Jason frowns, looking up. “‘Too’?”

 

Dick swallows, hard, and doesn’t reply for a long time. Just when Jason is about to break the silence, he lets out a sudden breath and says, voice small, “I can’t stop…dreaming about that machine.”

 

Jason hesitates, then rises up onto his elbow so he can look down at Dick’s face. “Something the Kuth’lori used?”

 

“No.” Dick’s eyes are distant, the line of his mouth uneven. “That fucking—bomb.” He shudders. “The ‘Murder Machine,’ or whatever they called it.”

 

Jason stills. _Murder Machine_ . He knows it, of course—pored over it in the reports Batman released of Nightwing’s death, researched it in obsessive grief in the days after Dick’s funeral, stood and watched, almost numb with how much it fucking _hurt_ , when the Justice League destroyed it—but he hasn’t thought about it since Dick’s return to Gotham, since his return to the living. Hasn’t thought about the possibility that, just because Dick isn’t dead, it doesn’t mean that nothing that happened during that battle was true.

 

“I remember,” he forces out, finally. “A bomb that could only be disabled by stopping your heart. It—” He swallows, something cold trickling down his spine. “That’s how Bruce told us you died. That Luthor stopped your heart to keep the bomb from detonating.”

 

Dick exhales, slowly, like he’s putting everything he has into keeping his breathing steady. “Yeah. That’s about the gist of it.”

 

In the darkness of the room, Jason stares at him, a lump rapidly forming in his throat. All this time, he’s assumed that everything about Dick’s faked death was, well, fake—but this— “Dick,” he says, voice strained. “Did Luthor—did he actually—?”

 

Dick clears his throat. “Mm,” he replies. “He, uh, suffocated me while I was in the machine. After the bomb had stopped, he brought me back with”—his voice wavers—“I don’t know, some kind of pill. I don’t—I don’t really remember it that well.”

 

Dick’s face is pained, like just touching upon the memory hurts him, and Jason—Jason feels sick. “You were dead.”

 

Dick’s eyes flicker to him, then fall away again. “No, not really—I mean, I was only out for, like, seven minutes—”

 

“Dick.” A hot surge of anger rolls up Jason’s spine. “Your heart stopped. For _seven minutes._ You were _dead_.”

 

Dick flinches, like the words burn him. “I don’t know. I guess.”

 

 _Fuck._ Jason resists the urge to close his eyes. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

 

At that, Dick lets out a humorless snort. “I thought I did?”

 

 _Fucker._ “Not that, you fuckface, and you know it,” Jason snaps. “Why didn’t you tell me you _actually_ died, _before_ you faked your death?”

 

This time, Dick does look at him, gaze disbelieving. “What could I have possibly said that wouldn’t have made me seem like even more of an asshole than I already was? ‘Hey, Jason, I know that you were, like, _really_ dead for almost three years, and that you had to claw your way out of your own coffin, and that it took a dip into a pit of screaming-crazy green acid and a few years of rehab from a power-hungry assassin woman for you to fully come back again, but I blacked out for a few minutes right before I lied to everyone I love and abandoned you all and it’s giving me nightmares, do you think we could talk about it?’”

 

Jason scowls. “I didn’t know the whole story.”

 

Dick frowns, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You hated me when I came back, Jason. I don’t think ‘the whole story’ would have done much except make you hate me more.”

 

Jason opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a tense moment of silence, in which he glares at Dick and Dick glares back, and Jason wants to say so many things, things that he feels like a hurricane in his chest but can’t even begin to articulate—

 

What he settles for, in the end, surprises even him. “I didn’t hate you.”

 

Dick recoils, blinking, like the words have genuinely shocked him, and a fist reaches into Jason’s chest and squeezes. He watches as Dick swallows, as all the fight drains out of him at once, and longs for the days when he and Dick could read each other’s thoughts in nothing but facial expressions, when he could tell Dick _I love you_ without any fear of the consequences. He wants that again, he thinks—wants nothing more than to take back the last two years, to do it all over again so that this time, he never has to let Dick go. Dick exhales and rubs at his eyes, like he’s exhausted but might cry at the same time; then he uses his forearms to leverage himself over and onto his side, so that he’s back to filling the empty space inside the curve of Jason’s body.

 

“Well, _I_ hated me,” he mumbles, burying his face in Jason’s pillow, “and I hate talking about this—it’s all in the past now, isn’t it? Can we just…go back to sleep?”

 

Even Jason, King, Baron, and Knight of the Unhealthy Coping Mechanism, knows that that’s no good. “Dick—”

 

“Please.” Dick’s voice is small and soft, and tired, so tired. “I miss sleeping next to you.”

 

 _Ah, fuck._ Leave it to Dick to pry out Jason’s weakness and use it to get out of a conversation about his own weaknesses. Jason sighs, but finds himself pulling the duvet up around them anyways, sliding down between the sheets until he and Dick are pressed together again. He tucks the blanket around Dick’s curled body, then slings an arm over Dick’s waist. “Fine,” he murmurs, resting his chin on the messy nest of Dick’s hair. “Sleep, for now. We’ll talk about this later.”

 

Dick snorts a sleepy laugh against Jason’s neck. “Sure, Bruce.”

  
Jason’s entire body jerks in instinctive protest. “Um, you fucker,” he begins—but Dick is already asleep, his breathing soft and even as he curls into Jason’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another long, angst-filled chapter in which almost nothing happens and practically nothing is resolved??? perissologist, you shock me! just kidding, i honestly am sorry for this bs, i promise this fic will get somewhere eventually...in the meantime, enjoy me giving dick the outlet about his death that he never got in comics?? 
> 
> as always, you all deserve the world for reading and commenting. let me know what you think of this mess and if there's anything specific you want to see before this fic ends! i'm thinking there are maybe two or three more chapters left? we'll see :)


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